


You and Me Both

by seabass



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: AU, M/M, a meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13257162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabass/pseuds/seabass
Summary: Brooklyn's flashy new ADA and a Queen's street cop meet in their kidnappers' basement. Somehow, it's even less romantic than it sounds.





	1. Chapter 1

A large part of Barba will be rather vexed if the gun is not loaded, but he mostly thinks that it is decidedly not. Barba is inclined to agree with a trip to Queens out of a sense of self preservation, more due to the size of Lennie’s fists and the square of his shoulders and less with Lennie’s daffy smile and certainly unloaded gun. So, Barba sits in his seat on the subway and screams “Help!” in his head loud enough that everyone who sits - crossed-legged, head down - would have to work not to hear it.

Lennie’s phone buzzes and science has proven that eyes are drawn to movement and noise. Barba waits to meet someone’s intrusive curiosity with a meaningful glance, but in New York it is a crime to be curious.

Lennie stands close above him, holding the bars with one hand. His other hand is tucked into his coat.

“My brother is going to meet us,” he says.

Barba bites his tongue as long as he can.

“Let me catch your attention for a second. Do you mind if I try to talk you out of the dumbest thing you’ve ever done in your life?”

“It won’t be the dumbest thing.”

“I’m not going to press charges. I won’t tell the police. Honestly, this hurts my reputation as much as it hurts yours. It’s embarrassing that someone can just walk into my office and within two minutes I’m heading out of town, gun to my head?”

“Shh!”

“We both benefit if this whole ordeal is chalked up to a complete misunderstanding.”

Lennie looks around, ears burning.

Barba stares hard at the college boy reading his philosophy text across the aisle, hoping the weight of his eyes will turn his attention. Obviously, Aristotle and his quibbling ethics holds a tighter pull of gravity.

The subway rattles to a stop and Lennie looks anxiously out the window to the waiting crowds. Announcements buzz overhead incomprehensibly and Lennie tucks into the seat beside Barba. The heavy gun in his coat pocket touches Barba’s hip. Barba closes his eyes.

As the train rocks back into movement, Lennie leans into Barba’s space. He smells distinctly sweet, like baked bread.

“Our stop is next.”

“When we stop, we can walk in seperate directions and never see each other again.”

“My brother has a car. We’re going to give you a ride to our house.”

“Is that where you plan to kill me?”

Lennie looks unnerved.

“What have I done to you? I don’t remember you. I don’t know how you know me, or why you’re doing this, but I promise that revenge won’t be as satisfying as you’ve fantasized.”

“We’re not going to kill you.”

“Was it the gun or the threats that are supposed to inspire my confidence in you?”

Lennie leans back and throws his arm over the back of the seat, his heavy hand dropping on Barba’s shoulder. Barba risks a glance up at Lennie.

“You seem like a nice guy,” Barba starts.

The hand clenches. Overhead, the speakers announce the oncoming stop and the cab slows. As Lennie stands, Barba is dragged to his feet by the fingers twisted in the shoulder of his coat.

“You seem like a nice guy, but the consequences for your actions are going to be far more severe than a nice guy like you can handle. You’re going to spend the next 20 years in prison and there will be nothing I can do to help you.”

Lennie’s hand disappears into his coat pocket as the cab meets the subway platform. The barrel of the gun knocks against his spine and Lennie is close behind him. The doors open and Lennie rushes him out. Soon the crowd surrounds them and Barba snags the sleeves of coats, bumps shoulders, and catches the eyes of strangers. He mouths words to the passing crowds and receives furrowed brows, but Lennie is a strong, relentless force at his back that moves him forward.

Undeterred, Barba hits harder on the shoulder of a small business man. The suited man drops his phone, legal pad, and pens, sending them clattering to the concrete. Barba snaps down to help him pick up his things, apologizing quickly. Barba waits for the business man to join him on the floor, but for all the time Barba scrambles to collect scattered pens the man never kneels. Barba glances up at the sordid face of the angry man as Lennie drags him to his feet and away.

At the back of the subway platform, two street cops harass a vagrant and his dog. Barba favors his left leg to masquerade a slope toward them as they near the stairs to the streets of Queens. Lennie twists his big hand into the back of Barba’s shirt and leads him to the far side of the tunnel. Barba takes the stairs slowly. Lennie impatiently forces him forward.

“He stole my phone!”

The businessman catches Barba by the wrist.

“You stole my phone!”

“I didn’t.”

Lennie shakes Barba by the coat a bit.

“You did," the business man claims, "When you bumped into me. What are you? Some sort of con artist?”

“I will kill you,” Lennie whispers in Barba’s ear.

“Police!”

The two cops glance to each other before they make their way through the crowd on the businessman’s call. As they approach, Lennie relaxes his grip, but his gun still holds at Barba’s back. The first officer is a woman with tightly restrained blonde hair.

She says, “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”

“He bumped into me earlier, now my phone’s missing. He stole it!”

“Make this stop,” Lennie warns.

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Barba explains.

The second cop, a tall and eager man, glances over Barba's expensive suit and thick coat.

“Let’s see if we can’t sort this out,” his accent - thick Staten Island - is giving a sway to his words and his confidence. He smiles, too cheerful.

“He stole it.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just drop it?”

“I did drop it and he picked it up.”

“Sir, have you seen his phone,” the officer - Rollins, her tag says - looks Barba over too, but she is more calculating, more cynical.

“I have not,” Barba tucks the phone into the sleeve of his jacket.

“And you, Sir?”

Under scrutiny, Lennie stutters, “No, Ma’am.”

“Let's get this sorted," Rollins says, "You guys want to follow me to the side, here?”

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it in your jacket,” Barba asks.

It is easy to reach for the jacket hanging off his briefcase, easy to slip the slim phone into the pocket on the side, easy to step back as the businessman lashes out and draws attention and does all the work of discrediting himself as a viable, reasonable man. When Rollins takes the jacket and pulls the phone from the first pocket she looks, the businessman is left sputtering. Rollins presses the phone and jacket into his chest and pulls him from the flow of the crowd to speak with him quietly. She exchanges a look with her partner, who leads Barba and Lennie to the other side of the stairs.

“We have to go, Officer,” Lennie insists.

“This will only take a moment. You guys from the city?”

“Yes,” Lennie looks up at the stairs, at the man's silhouette that looks down.

The officer catches Lennie’s attention, purposefully shifting in Lennie’s line of sight.

“I just want to wrap this little incident in a tight bow, then I’ll let you on your way. So you guys are from here, where are you heading?”

He’s talking directly to Barba, but his tall body fences Lennie from the stairs. Barba holds in his sigh of relief, looks up at the officer and hopes his eyes can do all the talking. Read between the lines, he begs.

“We’re-”

“A family dinner,” Lennie interrupts.

The officer looks between Barba and Lennie.

“My brother and I are heading home for my mother’s Christmas party.”

A warm look overcomes the officer, who smiles at Barba, but he is noticeably surprised by Barba’s dark frown.

“It’s close to sunset, you guys must be in a rush.”

“Oh, we are,” Lennie agrees heartily.

“Let me walk you up.”

“No, we can manage.”

“It’s a quick trip, and I don’t mind the stairs.”

The eager officer takes the initiative, parting the crowd and leading Barba and Lennie up the steps. He looks back at Barba.

“So, you two are brothers? I never had a brother, but I’ve got three sisters. I love them, honest I do, but those dinners are a riot! I’ve never seen the world so close to nuclear warfare then when those girls tried to plan New Years. You have plans for New Years?”

Barba startles when he realizes the officer has waited for his response.

“No, no plans.”

“Oh good!” The officer stammers, “I mean, not good. I’m going to this house up in Manhattan with a couple of friends. It won’t be crazy-”

“My cousin here wants to go see fireworks with his girlfriend in Brooklyn, where we grew up.”

“I thought he was your brother.”

Lennie, just one step behind Barba and the cop, gives a loud, startled grunt.

“We are cousins, but when you grow up under the same roof,”

“You’re close like brothers, I get it.”

Barba grimaces.

Lennie’s brother sinks back into the crowd as they reach the mouth of the subway. He’s shorter than his brother, less strong, but the gleam in his eyes is far more clever. He calculates on the sidelines.

“Alright, thank you for the escort, Officer-”

“Carisi.”

The officer reaches out for a handshake. Lennie has one hand on the gun, one hand on the seam of Barba’s coat, and he does not think quick on his feet. When the handshake is lightly offered, a satisfying tension follows and Lennie openly stares at the hand as he puzzles through his options. Barba waits, tense, considering the steps he can take when the finger comes off the trigger. There are several long seconds of awkward waiting as Carisi’s hand is poised at the middle ground.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Lennie’s snap is too strong, too nervous, and Carisi clues in. Carisi looks at Lennie, but stares at Barba longer. He furrows his brow, then smiles professionally.

“Alright, no problem. Let me get you the address on that New Years party, just in case you want some plans. My partner would know it. Rollins,” Carisi clicks into the radio.

“Tell her you’re getting coffee,” the brother’s voice is deep and serious from behind the cop, and this close Barba can see he is closer to Carisi’s height.

“I’m getting a cup, you want one?”

“Yeah, you know how I like it,” the radio buzzes back.

The brother, George, grits his teeth, “Now, get your hand off the radio.”

Carisi looks between Barba and Lennie.

“C’mon,” George leads Carisi toward the alley between two tall buildings at gunpoint.

Lennie and Barba follow, and deep into the alley Carisi and Barba are pushed against the wall. George and Lennie each have a gun, and they gain a third when George tugs Carisi’s sidearm off his belt. George takes his cuffs, keys, cell phone, radio, badge.

“Go get the car,” George tosses Lennie his keys and points out the four door parallel parked on the other side of the street.

Lennie tucks his little snub nose in his pocket again and takes off at a jog. Carisi catches the cuffs as they are tossed and unenthusiastically snaps them on, hands in front of him. George checks their bond and then turns Carisi around to face the brick wall again. He pats Carisi down, finding another small pistol and an extra set of cuff keys. George tosses most of Carisi’s effects into a garbage pile, keeping only his keys.

“Care to catch me up?”

Barba looks up at Carisi, “When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

When Lennie comes around with the car, he leaves the little Toyota in neutral and opens the trunk.

“Change of plans. Put the cop in the back.”

“We shouldn’t take him.”

“What do you suggest, then? We kill him? People will hear the shot.”

Carisi pulls at his cuffs and looks toward the street.

With Carisi’s skill and Barba’s brain, they could incapacitate at least one of the brothers, perhaps even make it a few steps before they were shot dead. Barba could buy time for Carisi, cause a distraction that could get the kid out of there.

“I don’t want to kill him,” Lennie says.

“And we won’t, but he’s seen our faces. He’s coming.”

Carisi is pulled off the wall. George keeps his gun on Barba, but watches his brother circle the cop around the back.

“I’m not getting in the trunk of your car,” Carisi looks rather offended.

“You’ll get in the trunk or you’ll die in an alley.”

The old car creaks as Carisi kneels in. He lays on his back and scowls at the trash, the old tire, the dirty rug, and then George.

“You’re looking at hard time, big man.”

“I’ve already informed them,” Barba sighs.

“Well, let me inform them again-”

Lennie slams the trunk closed.

* * *

 

Sonny will admit, under pressure, that he found the guy attractive, though he did not follow him up the stairs to flirt. He did not care about the case of the missing phone, either. Under oath, Sonny could not say why he felt obligated to escort the two men up the stairs, but he might believe - now, locked in a trunk - that it was police instinct.

It is dark, but Sonny’s eyes adjust about ten miles from the subway. Sonny has collected the tab to a beer can, a tire iron, two lug nuts, and a serpentine belt. He holds his treasures to the tuck of his gut as he fidgets to the right corner of the trunk. The trunk is not as cramped as his own car would be; Sonny is working with enough room that he is never comfortable but he can always be moving.

He pulls the soft lining of the trunk back to expose the wire of the brake light and splits as many as he can reach.

Reaching the other side of the trunk is out of the question. Sonny is too tall and gnarled too deeply within the knot of his own long limbs. He settles for working through the puzzle of his cuffs.

His attacker was smart enough to take his extra set of keys and smart enough to check how tight Carisi had pulled the rivet. The metal of the cuffs dig into his skin.

His fingers find the tin can tab and he takes it to his teeth, with hopes of fashioning it into a lockpick. He almost chokes on the little metal when the car squeals to a stop.

Carisi kicks the back seats, “You’re racking up assault charges!”

The car’s rumbling engine cuts, leaving Sonny with the rocking of the car and the whisper-shouts of his assailants as they get out of their seats. Sonny hides the tin tab under his tongue.

The big guy opens the trunk and tugs a dirty shirt over Sonny’s head, tying it tight over his forehead and letting it dangle over his eyes. Shadows and lights blend cryptically as Sonny is pulled from the trunk of the car. Angling his neck and head, Sonny can see a sliver of stepping stones, grass, and stairs as he is led into the foyer of a quiet home. The big man’s hands are steady and keep Sonny from sprawling down the stairs as they travel down into a basement.

Sonny picks up clues from the voices of the other, smaller man and a woman’s voice, too. He hears about a car dump, about a cop, and cameras in the city. He keens for as much information as he can before the words are lost to incomprehensibility a staircase away.

The cuffs unlock and Sonny allows himself to be manipulated into an odd position on the carpet, then his hands are secured and he is confined to the length his arms can stretch around a chair - no, a table. The big guy pulls off Sonny’s mask.

The well dressed man is not in the room. Sonny cannot see far up the stairs, but he hears a clatter.

The basement is more of a mancave. Sonny is cuffed to the leg of a table that is fastened to the floor. A couch, a couple of recliner chairs, and a tv set occupy the lobby, but the electrical wires have been severed on the tv and a large, steel set of bars and drilling equipment take up most of the couch. There are two rooms off the main lobby - a bathroom and, on the other side, a cubby of an office, with a desk, stacks of paper, and a lamp. Sonny looks up at his large assailant.

“It’s just you and me, buddy. Let’s talk this out.”

“I’ll get you a change of clothes.”

The big guy checks the cuffs one more time before he heads up stairs. Sonny has just enough time to spit his tin tab into his hand and bury it in a clenched fist before steps pour down the stairs. Sonny is relieved to see the well-dressed man alive. He looks disheveled and quite furious, but he is unharmed.

“Counselor,” the smaller assailant points toward the office.

The counselor moves stiffly to the desk and the cheap wheely chair. No sooner has he taken a seat has he been cuffed to the desk. His chain is longer than Sonny’s, with enough room to stand and even move a pace or two, but he looks no happier to have it.

When an all-clear is called, the woman creaks fearfully down the stairs. She is frail with age, but she is nimble and smart and she meets Sonny’s eyes with all her wits about her.

“Officer,” she greets.

“Ma’am.”

“Mr Barba.”

Sonny’s neck hurts trying to creen his neck to see Barba at his desk. Barba watches the old woman stiffly, a look on his face like he is not sure whether to judge her a joke or a threat.

“I must admit,” she says. “Today was not supposed to go this badly. You know, though, that those with intelligence hope for the best and plan for the worst.”

“It’s a stretch to call any part of today an act of intelligence.”

“That is entirely fair. I want to apologize on behalf of my sons, for what has been done and what will come, but my youngest son, he is not here today, is in trouble with the law.”

“You’ve got yourself a family of gems.”

The brother hovering above Barba pushes the box of files across the table. Barba catches the box and, with a little hesitance, lifts the lid. He fans the first stack of papers across the table.

“I imagine your son was provided a lawyer, so why am I here?”

“He has a lawyer, but he is a terrible, biased old man. He will not do his job. He sits by and says nothing through sessions and he didn’t argue during the arraignment. He does not offer legal advice and I am terrified for the trail. I know my baby will be found guilty.”

“For, wow, attempted assassination. Of the commissioner. Now add the kidnapping of an ADA and a police officer to your family rap sheet, in no time you’ll find infamy.”

“We need you to put my son’s case together, Mr Barba.”

“If you didn’t trust your lawyer you should have requested a new one.”

“We tried, four times. The paperwork kept getting lost or destroyed.”

“You could have gone to any DA or ADA in my office and asked for free advice.”

“That was the plan.”

“The plan was to ask for free legal advice by putting a gun in my face?”

“We went to your office, we asked for help, and for two weeks we were sent to the back of the line. Mr Barba, I promise you, we mean no harm. We would not have acted so desperately if we had not gone through every option we could think of, first.”

“You didn’t think to talk to me peacefully.”

“These are all the files. You have until the second of February.”

“Excuse me?”

“I will keep you updated on every change. Thank you for your time.”

“Did you say February?”

The woman walks up the stairs.

“It’s December!”

The small brother moves to the couch where the bars lay and lifts the heavy steel to the only sliver of a window in the basement. The bars fits snuggly into the pre-drilled rivets and locks into place. Barba is staring from his door, watching the brother work, papers still in his hands.

Sonny has no luck trying to file the tab into the right shape and size. When the older brother pounds down the stairs, Sonny loses the tab in his rush to hide it. The brother drops the promised change of clothes - sweatpants, a big t-shirt, socks - on the floor by Sonny’s crossed legs. He brings two thin plates, one he leaves for Sonny and the other he brings to Barba’s desk. The peanut butter sandwiches have the crusts cut off, and the side of apple slices is quartered and peeled.

“I’m more of a filet mignon guy myself, thanks.”

The younger brother sneers at Barba, “Don’t be ungrateful.”

Barba openly gapes at him.

“Look, the cop’s eating.”

“I skipped breakfast,” Sonny explains around his mouthful.

The older brother helps at the window, double, triple checking the bars.

“Are you going to dump the car?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to wipe it down?”

“Yes.”

“Where will you leave it?”

“The parking garage like you said, top floor.”

“You guys can cover your tracks all you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that you kidnapped an on duty police officer in front of dozens of cameras.”

The brothers looks back, stare at Sonny hard, and snap attention to the street as slowly, softly, sirens whisp closer. The streets are clear and empty, the day is winter cold, but the sirens grow louder, closer, and Sonny laughs as large TARU armors, buses, and squad cars squeal to a racing stop at the driveway. The horns of the calvary blair and Sonny laughs.

“Some plan,” he taunts.

A dozen TARU shields go up in a wall beside their truck. The flashing blue and red flares off the walls and Sonny can hear the microphone buzzing distantly.

The brothers gather their tools into a cardboard box, they chatter quietly together and move slowly. They clean up their stripped cords, the boxing from their tools, their screws and nails, and they glance to the window to watch the army occasionally. They ignore Sonny and his cheers, they brush him off, they say nothing.

When the doorbell rings, the brothers pull out their guns. One brother has a pistol and the other one has a revolver. They hold them like amateurs.

“If you’re holding that to me when TARU kicks in the door you’re a deadman. You better hope my partner’s not out there.”

“Shut up.”

Sonny keeps his mouth shut, like he is ordered, but he cannot wipe the smug look off his face. A tension overwhelms the room as everyone strains to hear noises a floor and a hallway away.

* * *

Eventually, the police cars leave. Eventually, the sun sets, the brothers disappear upstairs, the room grows cold, and Barba gets hungry enough to eat his sandwich. Barba works with his lamplight and his wheely chair, stretching as far as his cuff will allow to pull storage boxes off the shelves behind him. He digs through winter coats and kids’ soccer uniforms for hours.

“You find anything,” the street cop peeps around the corner of the table he is locked under.

“I thought you fell asleep.”

“Maybe for a minute.”

“There’s nothing but clothes in here.”

“Can you toss me like a jacket or something?”

Barba throws a hoodie; it slides over the table and falls into Carisi’s lap.

“You’re a lawyer?”

“Assistant district attorney, fairly new at the job, too.”

“And they brought you here to work on a case?”

Barba kicks the clutter away from his desk. He boxes up the paperwork and tucks it under his chair, pushing his plate and his crumbs away to sit and stare at the empty table top. His room is small and crowded. His chain to the desk does not give him the freedom to escape into the main lobby for fresh air. The lock on his cuff is small, Barba checks the desk drawers for a paperclip.

“Maybe I can be of use. I’m taking a couple of classes at Fordham Law.”

“Good for you,” Barba snaps the empty drawers closed.

“I can help with the case.”

“There is no case. Actually, there is one case: the case of the missing lawyer. Solve that one by getting me home to my Netflix queue and my cardigans. I have a dinner planned Friday night, and I’m not going to be in the mancave-basement of some sociopath grandmother and her three Norman Bates sons until February.”

“Right, I’ll get us out of here.”

“My hero.”

“My name is Dominick Carisi. My friends call me Sonny.”

“This isn’t the time.”

“You got somewhere more important to be, Counselor?”

Officer Sonny Carisi is a rather pathetic sight. His salved hair is turned and untidy, his uniform is wrinkled, one of his boots is untied. He leans wholeheartedly against the strain of his linked hands and watches Barba with all of his attention. He looks a bit like a puppy - hopeful, hungry, confused.

“Rafael Barba.”

“What do your friends call you.”

“ADA Rafael Barba.”

Sonny grins and Barba rolls his eyes.

“What time is it, ADA Rafael Barba?”

“It feels late. It’s probably past midnight.”

“Well then, Merry Christmas.”

Barba leans back in his awful wheely chair, looking up toward the ceiling.

He must fall asleep, or in the blink of an eye it becomes early morning and Lennie and George are shoulder to shoulder at his office doors. Barba blinks away the fuzz of grogginess.

George throws the case files down on the desk.

“You didn’t even look at them.”

Barba stretches, or tries to. His arm jars with the cuff.

“I had other, more pressing matters.”

George slams his fists into the desk. He is unfazed by the crack of his knuckles and the split of the dry skin. Barba can see Carisi - tense, heated - crouched by his table.

“Hey,” Carisi warns.

“You should be doing your job,” George snaps.

“My job?”

“Counselor,” Carisi softens his caution.

Barba finds a pen among the box’s clutter and spreads the files in front of him again.

“I can tell you everything you need to know right now. I’ve seen enough. It does not take an ADA to tell you what you’re dealing with.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You want my advice?”

“Yes.”

“Real, Harvard Law advice?”

“Please.”

“Have your brother take a plea deal and do his time. Your brother is guilty of a crime, and that crime is punishable with prison. The question is how long he will be-”

“He’s not guilty.”

“I’ve spent the entirety of two minutes looking at these files. The very first page, right on top of the stack, is photos from footage of your brother in the actual act of committing the crime. Are you going to argue the gun in his hands was a water pistol? You can’t, here’s the paperwork for the gun the police took into evidence. You want to argue that the whole thing was a joke? Here’s a stack of emails and texts that expressly say that he was participating in an assassination.”

“He was forced to do it.”

Barba reads off the first lines of the texts between the brother and his unknown accomplice, “Text, incoming: That commissioner is really getting into my business. Text, sent: You need him off your back? Text, incoming: Yeah. Know anyone who will do it? Text, sent: I will. How much will you pay?”

A silence settles in the brothers - a storming, brewing silence.

“Your brother is not only guilty of this crime, he’s also guilty of being one of the stupidest criminals I have ever had the displeasure to build a case around. A task force of defense lawyers from the best schools in the nation could not build a case that would set your brother free. If you want your brother to walk, you’re going to have to kidnap the next Einstein because you don’t need a lawyer. You need a time machine.”

“You need to do better than that.”

“You want me to pull a rabbit out of my hat?”

“You better.”

“This case has been over since the arrest. You have wasted your time. You have wasted your mother’s time, your brother’s time, the officer’s time, my-”

Barba skull thumps off the desk. George wrings Barba’s tie in his fist and holds him against the wood by the back of the neck. Carisi and Lennie both shout. Lennie grips his little brother by the shoulder, pulling him back and away. Barba loosens his tie, straightens his collar, and clears his throat.

“My brother is a good man,” George hisses. “He does not belong in prison.”

“I’m going to need a computer.”

“No.”

“I need to do research.”

“You can make a list. I will print material out for you.”

“I need the newspaper.”

“There’s no newspaper today.”

“I need the morning paper every day I’m here. I need to keep up on current events or I won’t be able to build a relevant case.”

George hesitates and then nods.

“You need to let this police officer go.”

“No,” George and Carisi say together.

Barba stares at Carisi as he says, “He’s going to get in my way. He’s distracting. The police are going to be at our heels until they find him. It’s dangerous to have an officer here. I can keep coming up with excuses, but let me boil it down for you, I will not help you if you’re holding this man. He’s not part of this and he’s no use to you. Let him go home to his family.”

“You’re in no position to make demands. He stays.”

“Then, we compromise. Lose the cuffs. You barred the window, you practically kid-proofed this place. We can’t get up to any trouble, so let us walk around.”

George frowns and looks back at Lennie.

Barba catches his attention again when he leans forward, “You are supposed to be keeping us here for nearly six weeks. You’re going to kill us if you keep us like this the entire time.”

Two sets of keys drop to the tabletop and George slams his hand down when Barba reaches for them. Barba does not pull his hand back. He looks up at George and his deep, furious frown.

“You will work on the case.”

“I have nothing better to do,” Barba agrees.

* * *

 

“You think they’ll give me a deck of cards?”

Barba does not look up, but Sonny knows he is listening.

“Or like monopoly? Clue? Connect four?”

Sonny stands close to the window and watches the cars pass and the snowy rose bush sway. The window’s bars are closely knit, the spaces between the steel is large enough to fit just the tip of Sonny’s pinky.

“Counselor, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you want?”

“An aspirin.

“Yeah?”

“An espresso.”

Barba has moved from his office and out to the larger table that Sonny was locked under. He has spread out his files and attacked the documents with a highlighter and a pen. He has remained in his seat for hours, even after the big brother brought down a cold breakfast, even after Sonny called him toward the window to tell him it was snowing again. Barba busily scribbles endless notes and he ignores the rest of the world.

“You should take a break, Counselor.”

“I have plenty to do, thank you.”

“Just stretch your legs for a bit. You should eat.”

“Bon appétit,” Barba waves at the crusty scrambled eggs.

“You can afford five minutes, you have two months don’t you?”

“Our friend George has a temper.”

“George?”

“George and Lennie, the brothers.”

“You got their names?”

“No, but they remind me of someone.”

Carisi laughs, “You a fan of the classics?”

“Not today.”

“You know, my ma’s going to be worried sick.”

“You were going to spend the holidays with her?”

Sonny sits in the chair opposite Barba, “And my sisters, yeah. I think we would be starting the ham about now.”

“I don’t think they’ll be celebrating tonight.”

“No,” Sonny admits somberly.

Barba returns to his paperwork, sketching out indecipherable shorthand. Barba’s tie is loose, his jacket is tossed over the chair behind him, and his sleeves are rolled up. He looks every bit like he is working a late night at the office uptown and not about to hit the 24 hour mark of his abduction.

“You must be used to working under this kind of pressure.”

“Pressure? Sure. This kind of pressure? Not so much. My clients don’t tend to carry weapons to our conferences.”

Sonny is relieved to see Barba snap his pen closed and sit back.

“Think we should knock on the door and ask for Pictionary?”

“Chess.”

“I’d kick your butt at chess.”

“Sounds like a challenge, Officer.”

Upstairs, footsteps stir. Barba and Sonny watch the noise as it clammers from the kitchen toward the basement door. The locks are unfasted one at a time and the oldest brother, Lennie, stands at the door frame. He holds plates.

“Christmas dinner,” Lennie says as he sets down the food and looks over Barba’s papers, “This is remarkable. You are very good at your job.”

“That’s why you kidnapped me, isn’t it?”

“I did research. You were the second name to come up when I was looking for successful lawyers.”

“And why is it that the very best isn’t sitting in the basement of a house in Queens?”

“She is out of town for the holidays.”

“That will teach me to stick in the city when I have perfectly good vacation hours.”

“Hey, can we get something down here to pass the time,” Sonny asks, “A deck of cards or something?”

“I don’t know,” Lennie starts.

“C’mon, we all need a break.”

“I have a list of the information I need,” Barba passes off a folded paper. “I can’t do anything else until I have some of the records on this.”

“Some books or a deck of cards,” Sonny bargains.

“And a chess board.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lennie says and he smiles a little sheepishly at Sonny’s big grin. “You guys seem nice. I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“Not sorry enough to let us go home, though.”

“No, Mr Barba.”

When Lennie leaves with their dirty dishes, Barba clears off the table. He drops his files and pens in his box, kicks it under the table, and shakes out his hand. Pulling his Christmas dinner close, Barba tucks into his meal and laughs.

Sonny smiles a bit, “What?”

“Ham?”

Sonny admires his plate - dry ham, chunky mashed potatoes, canned green beans. His mother prepares a beautiful honey ham with a sweet glaze and a rich, fresh baste every Christmas. She cooks authentic Italian sides, with sweet zeppole desserts that would send five star chefs back to school. Sonny moves the potatoes on his plate around and they limply obey.

“You look homesick.”

“You caught me.”

After a quiet, stiff dinner, Barba pulls off his tie and leaves it dangling with his jacket off the back of his chair. When he stands, Sonny stands with him.

“You should take the couch,” Sonny rushes.

“I’m just going to freshen up in the bathroom.”

“I’ll set up on the floor, you should really take the couch.”

“Because I got us into this mess?”

Sonny does not respond. Barba is not looking for comfort and he does not wait for it. When he closes the bathroom door, Sonny pulls a pillow off the couch and grabs the hoodie he used as a blanket the night before to cover his shoulders again. He sprawls out on the floor underneath the window.

* * *

“Can I have sports?”

“I thought you would ask for the comics.”

“Can I have those too, actually.”

“Don’t do the crossword,” Barba sections out the newspaper.

Carisi folds his pages up and sticks them between the covers of the mystery murder novels Lennie brought down with a stack of clothes and towels. He finishes setting up the chessboard, spinning it around so Barba plays white. Barba does not take his eyes off his article as his moves a pawn.

“Cameras show Brooklyn ADA Rafael Barba being led from his office at gunpoint in the early afternoon of Christmas Eve,” Barba reads from the paper. “He is depicted getting off at the subway in Queens where his abductor is followed by a police officer. That police officer was later discovered missing. The attackers have been identified and the city is working hard to recover the missing men. No death or injuries have been reported.”

“That police officer?” Carisi mirrors Barba’s move on the board, “They won’t even print my name?”

“Guess your not worth the front cover,” Barba leads a knight forward and flips through the business section.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’ve already got what I was looking for.”

“You’re checking for information on the case they have you working?”

“No, I’m checking my stocks. I want the daily paper to keep updated on a far more important case: my case, and the recovery of me.”

“You lied to the brothers?”

“Of course. I don’t know how keeping up with current affairs would help the youngest of the Manson family, the case is dead in the water. It’s almost a pity for the state to waste resources prosecuting. The kid might as well have told his arresting officer that he was there to kill a man for money. Which, as it happens, is exactly what he did.”

“You’re kidding.”

“A hundred and one confessions from the kid and the family still wants to think he’s innocent. Or that his case is salvageable. The reason their appointed attorney is taking the beating laying down is to give the kid the appearance of remorse. His game plan is to get the judge to be lenient.”

“Have you gotten anywhere?”

“I’m chasing a couple hunches,” Barba motions to the thick stack of printed papers Lennie gathered. It is an intimidating pile.

“I can help you.”

“Fordham Law, right. How long ago did you finish your LSAT?”

“In February.”

“Wow, so with all one semester of graduate school you’ll be a huge help.”

“Listen, I was about to take my detective’s exam. I’m pretty handy.”

“I’ll alert the Hardy Boys, Detective.”

Carisi blushes red and Barba freezes when it the color whisks from the neckline of his shirt up, up to the the tip of his ears. Barba hides his grin behind the paper. His smile will, no doubt, get him into trouble with the sensitive officer.

“You’re on your own then, Counselor. Don’t come crying to me when you go cross-eyed trying to read all that,” He slaps his next pawn down.

Barba claims the enemy pawn with his knight. He grabs a towel, a pair of sweats, and a t shirt from the pile on the table. He flips through the stack of research material and case transcripts Lennie brought him and tugs out the least complicated report. Carisi takes it from his hands hesitantly when Barba offers.

“I need a shower and to get out of these clothes. Don’t touch the chess board while I’m gone, I know where everything is.”

Carisi is far more focused on his papers, “What are you looking for in this?”

“Anything. Consider me a desperate man.”

Barba stands in the shower for a long time, and spends almost as long standing in front of the mirror half dressed. Surprisingly, his reflection manages to look worse than he feels. Under his button up, he never would have guessed he would be supporting purpleing bruises where Lennie had led him through New York. The bruises are on their way to healing, but Barba is distressingly unkempt. It bothers him to still have the discoloration of his arms exposed when he slips into the itchy shirt. It bothers him to have bags under his eyes, chapped lips, an unshaven face.

He folds his suit neatly, towel dries his hair, and digs around in the sink until he finds a couple boxed toothbrushes. He sets the blue one aside for Carisi and plans some extemporaneous joke about matching the color of his eyes.

“I’ve noticed the color of your eyes,” he will say.

Barba sits on the closed lid of the toilet and entombs his face in his hands.

“I’ve gotten you into this mess and I will probably get you killed,” he will say, “but here’s a toothbrush.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sonny has his king, a couple of pawns, and a bishop on the board. Barba has an armada and is on the attack. The board has been pushed to the side of the table and Sonny glances over to ponder his next move when Barba is deep in papers and paragraphs. When Barba sits back Sonny snaps his eyes to his own notes.

“There was a case a few years ago: Accorsi v. New York,” Barba says, “A man told a jury he was coerced to murder by the victim. His lawyer wanted to plea down to assisted suicide.”

“Did he win the case?”

“He’s still serving a life sentence in Rikers.”

“So, how does this help us exactly?"

“We need to get creative with motive. We can’t argue that the crime didn't happen because here’s nine folders of proof that it did. We need to think of a justifiable reason for everything."

“We can try to seperate the actions out. Maybe the texting was only meant to be a couple of friends joshing around and the money transfer was there for some other payment, say a car bill.”

“And the murder attempt caught on camera was just a staged, one man political performance meant to personify the theatrics of the current state of the economy?”

“Something like that.”

“No judge will separate these actions. No jury would be negligent enough to let an obvious chain of events be dismissed.”

“What about first degree robbery. Have his lawyer paint him to be a big bully, someone who meant to scare the guy, not kill him. If you read these texts right, these guys meant to roll the commissioner over, nothing more.”

“We can get the charges down to conspiracy and robbery with a deadly weapon, a class A felony, and we can tell our gracious hosts that their brother will be doing 25 to 40 instead of life.”

“This may be a lost cause.”

“The good news is, if we can pull this off, you could write a great term paper on it.”

Sonny moves his pawn after much thought.

Barba slides a rook forward, “Checkmate.”

“How.”

George and his mother stand at the top of the stairs. Sonny did not hear them turn the locks. They walk the staircase slowly, faces drawn and cold. The family resemblance is more pronounced as they come to stop at the table together - same sharp nose, same thin jaw, same hollow cheeks. Lennie’s round, undefined face and thick shoulders are an odd inconsistency.

Sonny looks over George’s head to see if he can spot Lennie’s friendly smile, but the door is closed.

“The case?”

Barba looks up at the short mother, “I have a couple ideas, but this case is pretty cut and dry.”

“I know it will be difficult.”

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Barba stands.

George puts himself between his mother Barba. His heavy hand slaps down on Barba’s shoulder and drives him back to his seat.

“This case is open and shut,” Barba says, “Your son was caught on camera. His texts lead to motive. He received a large payout and his bank records directly link your son to the man who asked him to commit murder.”

“I have read about your cases, you are good at your job.”

“If you have read about me, then you know I’m a prosecutor. It is just a matter of chance that I am not representing the state in this case.”

The mother frowns, “You have no good news for me? After everything?”

“We want to look at motive,” Sonny says.

Barba shoots him a severe look.

Sonny hastens, “If we can get the jury to see your son was acting under another influence, then we can get the sentence reduced.”

“Reduced isn’t good enough,” George snaps.

“We want him back,” the mother agrees.

Barba shakes his head. He puts a hand up toward Sonny to keep him quiet, “I need you to be clear about your expectations, and I need you to come to grips with reality.”

When George reaches for Barba, Sonny catches his hand. George pulls back fast.

“Hear me out,” Sonny tells him, “What if we plead insanity. What if we tell the courts that your little brother was all over the map, unpredictable, that he wasn’t in his right mind when he was prompted to murder and that he would not have done it if he was all there.”

“Because nothing says insanity like organized planning and a clear fiscal motive,” Barba dismisses.

“My brother is not insane!”

“I mean, he did take a shot at a police commissioner.”

George slams his hands on the wood. The table shakes, the papers shift, the room gets very quiet. Barba reaches out to Sonny’s arm, still outstretched, and Sonny looks over at the soft touch. Barba is watching him darkly.

“Go upstairs, Mom.”

“Baby.”

George turns on his own mother with a snarl, and the little woman steps back.

“You need to calm down,” Sonny warns.

“Do you think I have a temper, Officer?”

“I do now, yeah.”

“Go upstairs, Mom. Right now.” 

The mother falters - she looks at Barba, then glares hard at Sonny. Ultimately, she whispers in her son’s ear, kisses him lightly on the cheek, and creaks slowly up the stairs.

“Don’t make any mistakes here, Cop. You are the weakest link in this chain. Getting rid of you would be like getting rid of a rash.”

“Poetic,” Barba says sharply, “But remember that I’m here to help you and you want me in your corner. Killing the police officer who tried to rescue me would be a bit of a conflict. You also would have murdered a cop which, may I remind you, is a crime.”

George pushes off the table, “You’ve got until tomorrow to give me something worth hearing.”

He climbs up the stairs and makes a scene of closing the door - slamming it hard, locking them in noisily.

“You really can’t read a room, Officer.”

“That guy needs some help.”

Hours later, when Barba is half asleep on the couch and Sonny is flipping through his third game of Solitaire at the coffee table, Barba hums thoughtfully. 

“What’s that, Counselor?”

“We can argue self defense.”

“For an attempted assassination?”

“We just have to make it look good to George, buy some time.”

“For what?”

“An escape.”

Sonny sits forward to look at Barba. Barba has his eyes closed and he is pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Are you serious?”

“As serious as a murder charge,” Barba sits up, “Obviously, George is unstable - more unstable than I originally presumed, at least. We’re not going to make it to February.”

“So we buy time.”

“And we escape,” Barba agrees.

* * *

Lennie looks guilty when he brings breakfast and the paper in the morning. He tiptoes down the stairs before the sun is up and leaves the plates on the table. When he spots Barba watching he jumps.

“Excuse me.”

“Not a problem,” Barba speaks softly, hoping Carisi will remain asleep.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m about as good as you would expect.”

Lennie sees the hoodie tucked under Carisi’s chin, “Do you guys need blankets? I’ll bring blankets, I should have thought of that.”

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

Lennie hesitates.

“What.”

“I heard my brother yelling yesterday.”

“Yes. He was upset.”

“Don’t let him scare you. He’s a good man, he’s all talk.”

“I don’t think I’ll test that.”

Lennie is twitching and sweating - nervous. He avoids eye contact, even when Barba purposefully moves into his sightline.

“You know this is wrong,” Barba says.

“What?”

“You could end this. If you go to the police they will know you’re helping us.”

“I can’t.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“I can’t,” Lennie finally meets Barba’s eye, then his voice cracks, “I’m sorry.”

“Just think about it,” Barba passes off his new list of research material. 

“I’ll bring you blankets.”

“We might be able to work that guy,” Carisi says once Lennie is gone, sitting up and stretching.

His hair is a greasy mess and he blinks sleep away. He pulls on the warm hoodie he uses as a blanket.

“One step at a time. You’re next step might be taking a shower and getting in some clean clothes.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Carisi struts - on long, long legs - to the barred window. Even he is barely tall enough to peer through the small holes.

“You know,” he says, “that car’s been parked out there a while.”

“George’s car?”

“No, a van. It’s been there since yesterday.”

“Undercover cops?”

“I think so. They must have eyes on the house across the street, George and Lennie’s place. This must be their neighbor’s place. We just need to get their attention.”

“And what? You want to get some crayons and we’ll sketch out a sign?”

“We could write something on paper, thread it through the bars and stretch it out. They might see it. There’s a rose bush in the way and I doubt they’d see it in the snow.” 

Barba sits at the table, “It’s better than nothing.”

“We need something long term.”

“We need to make some noise. I bet we can get their attention with the right sound.”

“Like?”

“A gunshot.”

“You want to make a move for George’s gun?”

“Not George’s, Lennie’s.”

“He’s much bigger.”

“And more forgiving,” Barba says, “Not to mention, he comes down here more often, on a far more predictable schedule. He will come down again tomorrow, to bring the paper and breakfast. I asked for more information for the case. They can skip out on lunch and dinner, but they won’t forget about the case.”

“You don’t want to make a move today?”

“I want complete control, I want to know as much as possible about the scene before I add more chaos. I thought they taught you this at the academy.”

“Sure. But, we could move at lunch.”

“Lennie comes down before the sun even rises. I’m hoping George and their mother will be asleep.”

“So, we get the big man’s gun and fire it a couple of times. What’s the plan after that? What do we do if George and good old mom come storming down and the UC isn’t fast enough to prevent a hostage situation? Or for that matter, our execution.”

“We’ll still have a gun.”

“And we’ll be backed into a corner. This room only has one exit,” Sonny sits in front of Barba, “We could take Lennie at gunpoint up the stairs and out of here.”

“Presuming that Lennie isn’t worth shooting through.”

“We should also consider the ethics of holding someone hostage.”

“To be honest, I won’t be bothered with the philosophy of survivor’s morality until I’m at home, in pajamas, with a warm cup of coffee.”

“Okay, so we take the gun off Lennie, now we need to keep the big guy from stomping our brains out.”

“The handcuffs.”

The handcuffs lay on the office table with the keys. They would slip easily into Sonny’s pocket - inconspicuous until they were snapped on Lennie’s wrist.

Sonny ponders, then says, “And we get the gun and fire it. When Lennie’s reinforcement kick the door in we hold Lennie hostage until backup gets in.”

“It should be foolproof, as much as that’s worth.”

“You need to stay behind me, Counselor. If bullets start flying, I think it’s my turn to protect you.”

“If you think I’ll rebuttal, you’re mistaken. It’s not my job to field the bullets, I’m here to mince words and beat around the bush.”

“And you do it a little too well."

“What can I say, I’m an expert in my craft.”

* * *

Sonny displays his work to George in a flutter of papers. He taps proudly at his chicken scratch on the margin and grins. George looks the papers over.

“What does it say?”

“We’re working a lead. It’s possible that we can turn a jury.”

“We want to plead self defense,” Barba explains.

George perks up, “Self defense? He could walk. How?”

“We will rephrase the evidence, make it look like your brother was threatened into going after the commissioner.”

Barba lays the documents out. Each damning piece of evidence is crossed with notes and sidebars and ideas for defense. Barba polishes off a couple lines and passes his notes off to George.

“There’s plenty of work left to do,” Barba says, “but we can start to break down the prosecution’s evidence.”

“You want to say the texts where veiled threats,” George reads.

“Look,” Sonny buzzes with excitement, “we’ve already shined the text under a, how’d you put it? An ambiguous light.”

Sonny is dismissed with a wave of George’s hand.

“You think this will work, Mr Barba?"

“It’s all we’ve got.”

“You need to do better than that.”

“I think it will work, yes. But I need more time.”

“Time is something you have in excess now.”

Barba frowns, “Thank God for little mercies, I guess.”

George collects their notes and papers in a messy pile. Barba heaves a crabby sigh and he is rolling his eyes when Sonny glances back.

“We still need these documents,” Sonny says.

“I’ll bring them back tomorrow, along with the rest of your research.”

When George is gone, Barba flips through the newspaper, passing off the funnies and sports before Sonny asks. He does not look up to see Sonny’s big, goofy grin.

“What’s the good news, Counselor?”

“The good news? There’s a small army on the streets looking for us. The bad news, we’re not front page anymore. Some celebrity is pregnant.”

“New York has her priorities.”

Barba slaps the article down, “It works in our favor. I don’t want my paper taken away because Lennie and George get spooked when they see their family’s faces splattered on every paper and board in the city.”

Sonny swings the article around, “We have their names?”

George and Lennie are pictured below the article title. Barba and Sonny are pictured above. Sonny’s photo from the academy is a bit embarrassing - his smile a little wild, his eyes scrunched up in joy.

“Their names don’t matter. I’m more interested in how our case is coming.”

“The case of the missing lawyer.”

Sonny feels better after his shower that afternoon. The clothes he was lent fit well, and the shirt and sweats are more comfortable than his uniform, but it feels wrong to leave his street blues and boots in a box under the stairs.

The winter cold bleeds into the basement despite the heater running all night and day upstairs. Sonny keeps wrapped in his big hoodie - something that probably belonged to Lennie.

Barba must be cold, but he does not move much from his spot at the table. Despite the situation, Sonny admires the strong set of Barba’s shoulders and the meritable severity in which he works - always writing, always clockwork thinking, cogs turning. He is a silent, elegant power; he embodies an ambiance that Sonny has pursued since the academy, since before. It may be a mortal sin to break such concentration.

Sonny makes his peace with God and says anyway, “We should go over the plan again.”

“I don’t have any problems with my memory, Officer. Feel free to work through your strategy quietly on your own, though.”

Sonny checks on the UC van and finds it half buried in bright snow.

“Counselor!”

Barba snaps his eyes up, half raises from his seat, “What?”

“Come look, it’s snowing!”

“As it has been,” Barba drops down with a huff.

“You know, you seem very calm but you’re pretty high strung, aren't you?”

“Is the rain wet? Is the Pope a Catholic?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you even plan on passing your detective’s exam? Of course I’m nervous. Of course I’m high strung, look where I am!”

Sonny laughs, “That’s not what I meant. I just mean that you seem so in control.”

“Is that what you mean. Well, sorry to disappoint.”

“No, I just thought you were brave.”

“And I thought you were supposed to protect the public, but here we are.”

Sonny deflates at Barba’s sneer, “Right.”

Barba folds his papers so he can see the chessboard and their game, only half a dozen moves in and waiting on Barba. Barba drags his bishop to the center corner of the board and claims Sonny’s deserted queen. He knocks her to the table with a clatter. He returns to his paper as the queen comes to a stop by Sonny’s soldier graveyard.

“Your move.”

Sonny turns back to the window. His warm breath fogs on the glass and he watches small snowflakes fall.

The silence remains like a sticky paste until well after sunset. Eventually, Sonny digs up one of the murder mystery novels Lennie has brought down and sits on the couch. It is a cheesy little noir thriller with awkward sex scenes that make Sonny’s neck itch as he turns back to make sure Barba is not reading over his shoulder. Barba has surrendered to the weight of his eyelids about an hour prior. He has moved to the other side of the couch, tucked his legs beside him, and propped his head up in his hands. If Sonny had noticed Barba drifting, he would have moved to the table and let Barba lay down, but by the time Sonny had remembered the world he was 100 pages deep in his book and Barba breathing slow and shallow.

Sonny stands to stretch his legs. He leaves his book open, facedown on the coffee table. There is not a lot of room in the basement, not a lot of places to stretch and get blood pumping. Sonny ends up by the table, where Barba has cleaned up his papers and left the chessboard as a centerpiece. Barba plays white again, and he has Sonny’s king on the run up the middle of the board. A black knight and a pawn fall behind as Barba’s queen is poised to take Sonny’s last line of defense. Pulling the knight back would leave his king exposed, but if he loses his knight the king will fall in a matter of a turn or two. He gently, regrettably, moves his pawn between his knight and Barba’s queen.

“You should get some sleep,” Barba’s voice is deep with drowsiness.

“I’m good. I don’t want to miss our opportunity when Lennie comes down.”

“We can sleep in shifts,” Barba rubs his eyes and stands, “It’s your turn.”

“I’m honestly fine, Counselor.”

“I argue for a living, Officer. You really don’t want to start with me?”

Sonny laughs, “You threatening me?”

“Absolutely.”

Sonny plops down on the couch, “I thought Lennie was going to bring us down extra blankets.”

Barba tosses his coat over the back of the couch and Sonny tugs it down over him as he lies. It is not hard to evade sleep from the second his head hits the cushion. He finds his book, still. The fictional world is a comforting maze of hilarious complications that are not his responsibility. The words on the page flow easily, distracting him from the softness of the coat’s expensive fibers and the faint smell of some ritzy cologne. 

* * *

 

Barba allows Carisi to sleep until the sky reddens with dawn. Before he wakes him, Barba dog-ears Carisi’s place in his book and sets the novel aside. He shakes Carisi by the shoulder and motions for silence when the officer blinks awake. Carisi gives a lopsided smile and then frowns as he remembers.

His voice is stern and serious as he asks, “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Lennie?”

“Should be down any minute. I hear him walking around upstairs.”

Carisi rubs his face as he sits up. When Barba’s coat falls off his shoulders he looks at it surprised. He holds it tight in his fist for a second before he hands it to Barba.

“Get your shoes on,” Barba says, “We’re going to be running through the snow in a bit.”

Carsi finds his boots under the stairs and sits on the floor as he pulls them on and ties up the laces.

“One more time, what's the game plan?”

“I don’t need to go over it again.”

“Well, I do.”

“We wait until Lennie is down stairs and has put everything down on the table,” Barba recites, “I will distract him and you will get the gun. You will use the gun to get Lennie on his stomach and I will handcuff him. You will fire the gun and I will get behind you.”

“Great. Okay.”

“And if things go terribly wrong we are completely out of luck and we will probably die.”

“Keep a positive mind.”

“We have very specific roles here, Officer. You are the reigning sun - the optimism. I am practical cynicism. There is a precarious balance.”

“Seriously?”

Barba gives him a well deserved dirty look.

“You should sit at the table, the chair closest to the door,” Carisi says, “I’ll stand by the couch.”

Barba moves to his seat and as Carisi walks past he sees Barba’s move on the board.

“I didn’t see that coming.”

Barba’s bishop has claimed Carisi’s knight, having been sitting, untouched turn after turn, on a forgotten side of the board.

“You don’t really have an eye for the bigger picture.”

Carisi shrugs, “Hindsight. Just reset the board.”

“We won’t be here to play another round.”

The locks knock on the door. Barba and Carisi jerk toward the noise. Barba sees Carisi take a stance - ready to pounce - and Barba knows he must look just as on edge. He forces himself to relax in his chair, even sit back, even cross his legs and flip through the day old sports news.

Lennie is heavy and slow down the stairs. He carries the box with all the case documents, two blankets, the paper, and breakfast on top. He smiles at Barba when he reaches the bottom step.

“Good morning, Mr Barba.”

“Good morning.”

The gun is still nosed into Lennie’s hoodie, in the right pocket, toward Carisi. Carisi spots it and looks to Barba.

“Here,” Barba clears a spot, “set that down.”

“I brought the blankets, and breakfast is scrambled eggs. My brother says you’ve spotted a promising breakthrough in the case.”

Lennie sets the boxes down but he is quick to grab a plate and turn to Carisi. Carisi stops quickly in his reach for the gun as Lennie hands him a plate.

“Officer Carisi, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you. You know, I wanted to be a cop when I was a kid.”

Carisi breathes, “Did you.”

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this. You should be home.”

Barba grabs the box of documents from under the blankets and pulls a handful of papers from the box.

“If you have a moment, I wanted to talk to you about an issue with the case.’

“I’m sorry, I’m only allowed to be down here for a minute. I have to go.”

Lennie is already on the first step, gun far from Carisi, toward Barba. The gun’s grip is within arms reach, half out of pocket.

Carisi looks to Barba and must see the spark in his eyes that speak to action. He nods, steels himself, and, when Barba tosses him the handcuffs from behind his back, Carisi catches them. When Barba reaches for the gun, Carisi rolls his fists into Lennie’s shirt and hauls him, midstep, down the stairs. Carisi steps out of the way as Lennie tumbles and Lennie hits the floor hard. Carisi twists the big man to lay on his stomach and he angles Lennie’s thick wrist awkwardly. When Lennie is belly down, Carisi drops his weight on one knee at the center of Lennie's back. Lennie is handcuffed in a second, shouts nulled by Carisi’s arm tucked under his neck - not enough to cut off air, but enough to keep his voice to low grunts.

Barba falls back against the wall with the force of all the sudden movement. He holds Lennie’s little revolver in his hands, surprised by the weight and the raw cold of the metal. Barba is shaky when he raises the weapon, trembling by the time his finger finds the trigger. He aims at the far wall, toward the window, and he fires once, twice, again, and again. There is no kickback or explosion, no noise at all

Barba pulls the trigger and the gun clicks through all six cylinders.

“It’s empty.”

“You’re kidding me,” Carisi chokes.

The basement door slams open and George stands, livid, ready to yell. He falls into an icy peace when he sees Barba and Carisi at the foot of the stairs, his brother ruffed up at their feet. As George steps down to their level, Barba moves on his gut’s pull - he points the gun at George and George presses his chest against the barrel.

“We’re going home,” Barba challenges.

“Your gun is empty, Lawyer.”

“And we have your brother,” Barba snaps back. “Your brother for our freedom.”

George swings so quickly that Barba cannot brace himself. His head strikes the concrete wall and his knees buckle. George is there to catch him with an elbow to the sternum, bracing him against the wall like a vice. Carisi shouts, but, closer, George is breathing right in Barba’s face. Barba does not think his nose is broken, but it was a hard punch.

“I don’t give do-overs.”

Barba tastes blood and he grins because Barba knows that there is no better time to smile than when blood drips onto your teeth. The Bronx has raised a bright and scary boy.

Carisi grabs George, hooking his hands under his arms and hauling him off Barba. Without George’s pressure, Barba lowers himself to the ground. Lennie is staring at him, his wide eyes watching Barba wipe the blood off his chin.

The chairs slide back as Carisi slips in the eggs he dropped and when his hips hit the table his grip on George slackens. George elbows Carisi in the jaw and shakes out of his reach. Carisi pulls into himself protectively, strategically, with the knowledge and tact of a cop. George races forward quickly, somehow moving with the hysteria of a madman but the judgement of a boxer. He lands lumbering blows on Carisi’s shoulder, axillary, and the side of his head. Carisi parries, but he is overwhelmed by George’s ferocity. Trapped between the swinging fists and the table, Carisi can only tuck into himself and wait for George to lose momentum.

Barba clambers to his feet, hands sliding blood up the wall. He catches himself on the railing of the stairs and bolts towards George’s back. He is about a head shorter than George and his hands only wrap at his waist, but Barba snakes around and holds tight. George shifts forward under the awkward weight and exposes the back of his knee. Barba does not get perfect leverage, but he will take what he can get. He stomps down hard where the calf meets the thigh and George drops. Barba gets his arm up around George’s throat and George bites down on his wrist. George’s jaw tightens and Barba drops his hold on the shoulder to try prying George’s teeth open.

Carisi punches George in the stomach. George crumples, gasping air, and Barba peels his arm from George’s mouth. Carisi flips George onto his stomach and George howls and pants.

“Let him go.”

Barba freezes at the crepid voice. At the top of the stairs, the mother holds George’s gun.

“We’re going home,” Barba heaves again.

The old woman takes the stairs slowly. She keeps her gun on Carisi deliberately. When she reaches the bottom step she has backed Carisi and Barba into the couch. George stands shakily, favoring a knee. The mother pats Carisi’s hoodie pockets and finds the handcuff keys. She tosses them to George.

Lennie stands unsurely, looking sheepish.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Get upstairs,” his mother orders.

Lennie slumps up the stairs, staring at Barba meaningfully - almost apologetically. He stops on the top step and sits.

George picks up his brother’s revolver, “My brother is too soft to carry a loaded gun.”

George holds the gun upside down and spits a wad of saliva and blood.

“Do you think I’m soft, Mr Barba?”

It takes every ounce of self preservation in Barba not to openly sneer.

George paces, “Do you think my brothers don’t mean the world to me? That I wouldn’t die for them?”

Barba stands, frustratingly shorter than George, and right at his chin. George hovers in Barba’s space, breathing the same air.

“That I wouldn’t kill for them?”

“You’re going to drag me across New York in broad daylight, chain me to a desk, and set me on a two month case just to kill me before I can finish it? You may not be a smart man,” Barba says, “but you’re not a dumb one.”

George steps away, still clenching the revolver like a baton. He speaks in hushed whispers to his mother and the mother pales, but she finally, finally takes her aim off Carisi. Barba finds comfort in the barrel he stares down.

George storms into Carisi’s space and Carisi squares his shoulders like a brave man.

“Wait,” Barba starts.

Carisi looks at Barba from the corner of his eye, raises just one finger from the hand at his side in caution.

“I need him,” Barba says. “He’s in law school. He came up with the idea that will get your brother out of prison. He is smarter, more clever than I am. If you want to win this case you want him alive. I still need him. I still have evidence to go through and he is going to be the one to solve this.”

The first crack of the gun over Carisi’s head makes Barba’s stomach turn, and George keeps swinging.

* * *

Sonny wakes up - he knows the ceiling well now, and the little ceiling fan. He is warm, for the first time since being brought down to the dungeons of suburbia. Despite the reluctance of his foggy, backlogged brain, Sonny begins to categorize.

The details are hard to recall, but Sonny starts with what he can remember. The blows to his head and neck are the origin of the fuzz on his thoughts, and he reaches up with a sore, swollen hand to feel for blood and cracks. A soft hand envelops his, then pulls them together back to his chest. When the hand slips away, Sonny reaches to test for any extensive injuries once more, but he’s caught again. Sonny heaves a frustrated sigh.

“You sound petulant.”

“Barba,” Sonny breathes.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Did you mean all that? About me being smarter than you? More clever?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. Wipe that grin off your face, if you remember I was the one that came up with the idea for the case.”

Sonny smiles harder, making his head throb.

“What happened?”

Barba is leaning against the couch, sitting on the floor. He has dried blood caked to his face and has done a bad job of wrapping up his wrist. Sonny is laying on the couch, wrapped tight in both of their blankets and, for the most part, much cleaner than Barba.

“You look terrible,” Sonny’s voice is hoarse. 

“You should see the other guy. And by that, I mean you.”

“I feel great.”

“Then you must be in shock.”

“How long has it been?”

“Only about 20 minutes. Lennie helped me get you on the couch. He brought down a first aid kit and some ice packs.”

“My ribs are killing me. Did I break one?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Hey, are you okay?”

Barba looks at Sonny, and he is uncharacteristically solemn. He smiles tightly and nods, almost a shrug.

Barba clears his throat, “I’m great.”

“They will find us.”

“Sonny, I’m beginning to wonder if that UC van is just a van. You know, I’m thinking about it and wouldn’t there be footprints in the snow from agents trading shifts? Shouldn’t the ice on the roof of the car have melted from the body heat of officers inside? Shouldn’t the windows be fogged up?”

“Counselor,” Sonny comforts.

“I’m fine. I’m just thinking.”

“You need to get out of your head.”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“Hey, you called me Sonny.”

“That head injury must be worse than I thought.”

Sonny opens his mouth but Barba stiffens and stares up, over the couch. It takes two attempts for Sonny to sit up, then he sees Lennie shifting by the table.

“What do you want,” Sonny drawls.

Lennie hands him a cardboard box. Inside are gauze wraps, bandages, and two clean shirts. Sonny passes the box down to Barba.

“Thanks.”

Lennie nods, and he stands there watching Barba and Sonny. He heads upstairs and Barba parses out the box.

“He’s an enigma.”

“He a better man than his brothers,” Barba says, “He might actually be sorry about this whole thing.”

“Being sorry isn’t the same thing as being noncompliant. It’s not like he’s being forced to hold us here. By law he will still be held accountable.”

“You’re going to make a great morally absolute lawyer one day. There’s Tylenol in here.”

“I take it all back, he’s absolved. Give me four.”

Barba gets up to fill a cup at the bathroom sink and taps it at Sonny’s shoulder until he takes it. Sonny slowly sits up.

“You need a shower,” Barba says.

“So do you.”

“Then I’ll take one. You’ll take one after, then we will wrap up your injuries,” Barba grabs a clean shirt out of the box. He hesitates at the bathroom door, “Will you be alright unsupervised?”

“I think I can manage,” Sonny lays his head back on the couch and closes his eyes.

The next thing he knows, Barba is beside him, gently shaking him awake. He is clean, but the deep cut on the bridge of his nose has reopened as he scrunches his face in concern. He looks surprised to feel the blood drip down his cheek.

Barba reaches for the gauze and pads the bead and Sonny sits up.

“Did you pass out?”

“I fell asleep, I think.”

“With absolutely no medical foundation to validate me, I’m a little worried about that.”

“I fell asleep, Barba.”

“Go take your shower.”

Sonny does not look in the mirror until he has closed the door. He is relieved to see only a small amount blood in his hair, far more relieved still to run his finger through the mess of clumped blood and find no gaping wounds or odd bumps. There is a noticeable goose egg above his hairline, and more darkening bruises purpling over the back of his neck. He has only one cut that continues to bleed, and it is on the soft part of his temple and it is not suspicious.

He goes through an old memorized checklist: no dizziness, pupils are equal and reactive, no confusion, no nausea. He feels good, but slow and exhausted.

Peeling his shirt off is a chore. Moving his left shoulder is like grinding a rusty hinge and since George’s beatdown focused on his whole arm, it has swollen. Underneath his shirt, the bruising is a far deeper purple. His left side is bruised near the chest, but the discoloration is less organized on his right. He feels his ribs and notes the places that are particularly tender.

When he is finally clean and he has forced himself back into clothes, be opens the door for Barba and sits on the sink.

Barba washes his hands.

“You stopped bleeding,” Sonny notes.

Barba sets out the gauze and tape. He looks at the cut on Sonny’s head that still oozes. He passes off a handful of dressing and and directs him to the cut on his temple.

“You think I’ll need stitches?”

“Again, that’s not something I would know. Just hold it there, if it doesn’t stop bleeding we’ll assume it needs stitches.”

“And then?”

“And then it will need stitches,” at Sonny’s stressed expression, Barba rolls his eyes, “I don't have the equipment to give you stitches, Officer Carisi. You will just have to live with a scar.”

“I like it better when you call me Sonny.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Barba preps a couple of alcohol pads and when there are four or five placed neatly on the other side of the counter Barba starts cleaning the shallow cuts on Sonny’s face.

“I’m sorry, Carisi,” Barba finally says. He tosses a pad out.

“For what?”

“On Christmas Eve, when you followed Lennie and me up the subway steps, I kept trying to drop you hints, catch your suspicions, so that you would discover and stop what was happening. If I hadn't led you up those stairs you wouldn’t be here.”

Sonny laughs, “I didn’t follow you up those steps because I was suspicious of anything. Not at first, anyway.”

“Then why did you follow me?”

Barba covers a couple cuts with round band aids. He meets Sonny’s eyes when he is quiet for a long time.

“I’m a bad man,” Sonny admits.

“You’re a good man.”

“I’m a bad cop, then,” Sonny says, “You were right. I don’t have much of an eye for the bigger picture. I should have gotten your hints on the steps, I should have been looking out for George up near that alley, and for their mother at the top of the stairs this morning. I should have really thought about that UC van because you're right, what if it is just a van? What do you call that level of thoughtlessness?”

“Hindsight.”

Sonny smiles dryly. He lets Barba peel the gauze off Sonny’s big wound and push it back on.

“Listen, Carisi. You remember, we have roles? You need to get back to it, you need to spark some of that endless enthusiasm because we still need to get out of here."

“Right.”

Barba takes Sonny’s gauze and swabs the cut quickly. He has a bandage over it before the cleaning burn sets and Barba looks a mix of amused and annoyed by Sonny’s wincing and griping.

After washing his hands again, Barba unwinds the makeshift bandages he has tied tight on his own arm. He peels the sucking gauze from the wound and rubs the alcohol swabs into the caves of the gashes.

“Are those from his teeth?”

Barba spins a bandage around his wrist until the wound is covered.

“I think you need to sleep,” Barba says, “You look dead on your feet.”

“What do you mean? I’m fine.”

“There’s a mirror right there, Officer. Take a look.”

 “I’ll take your word for it. Show me to my suite.”


	3. Chapter 3

Barba finishes the case just before dawn the next day, each document having taken hours to bury under riddles and overly complex reasoning. He has also compiled a folder of questions that would sway any jury and he has riled the prosecutor’s witness testimonies. If his information is presented with poise, Barba thinks he might actually get the kid off on the charge, or at least become the agent of his mistrial. Buchanan would be proud - which would give any moral man indigestion. The table is a mess of papers, and Barba leaves everything out to appease George in the event that he kicks in the door.

He resets the chessboard and moves it to the coffee table beside Carisi.

Carisi has been asleep for a day and a night. Worry has turned Barba’s stomach for hours, but if a slow brain bleed or a concussion has worsened to a wakeless sleep, Barba could not help anyway. Barba holds on to one stone firm fact all night - Carisi is snoring and the dead cannot snore.

Barba tucks into the first page of Carisi’s little mystery novel. He is finishing the first chapter when Carisi grunts.

“That’s mine.”

“And I can see why you’re hiding it.”

Carisi sneaks the book out of Barba’s hands and points to the chess set.

“You bring that over here for me?”

“No, but it’s here now.”

Turning the board, Carisi starts with a white pawn. Carisi is alert and in high spirits, he hums under his breath after Barba’s move and starts to mimic an old tactic that Barba had mounted a game or two before.

He looks better - or not as bad. The bruises are awful and clear on his pale skin, starting against his jaw and rolling under his shirt like a thunderstorm sky. There is a spot of blood on the gauze tight at his temple, but the cut has not bled through and must have scabbed over by now. He smiles with teeth and his eyes say he is fine, but Barba’s throat is still stiff.

“You know, my sisters didn’t play a lot of board games with me growing up. They played like checkers and stuff all the time, but as the youngest I was always kicked out. That was until they needed teams for sports, and you would need an extra person to make the teams even. I wasn’t very good at sports, though. Do you have any sibling, Counselor?”

“Uh, no. I’m an only child.”

“Yeah, I guessed. My dad loves this time of year. He’s the Christmas expert and everyone in the neighborhood goes to him for advice on how to decorate their lawns. He always goes way overboard, and we usually have to go cut a tree before even the end of November to keep the tradition alive.”

“Fun.”

“It is. My mom’s a great cook, too, and I’m always helping her with dinners while my sisters and my dad are putting ornaments and tinsel on the tree,” Carisi is not paying attention to where he moves his pieces at each turn. He buzzes and smiles at memories.

“What about you? Do you have any holiday traditions?”

“I don’t know, I visit my mother and my abuelita and one of them spikes the eggnog.”

Carisi laughs, “I bet it’s your grandma.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Counselor, are you letting me win?”

Carisi takes a bishop and gawks as he realizes he holds the upper hand now. He looks a little put off, a little offended, but still very goofy.

“Yes,” Barba admits.

“Well, stop.”

Barba relents and attacks with a shift of his rook that was withheld since Barba noticed the play a couple turns back. He claims Carisi’s knight again, and stands before the king.

“Check.”

“I take it back, let me win.”

Lennie haunts the staircase, waiting to be invited down. Barba is a little relieved to see him bare food, and he politely welcomes him. Lennie passes out dry ham sandwiches and when he hands Carisi his plate he stares long and hard.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“Yes,” Lennie says, “your bruises.”

“Yeah? Thank your brother for me.”

“He’s still really mad. Have you finished the case?”

“Not yet,” Barba reports, “We’re getting close.”

Lennie admires the work on the table, but he does not disturb the placement of the papers.

“Your brother is going to kill us,” Barba says.

Lennie flinches, “Yeah. I think so.”

Barba swallows.

Carisi sits up, “You’re okay with that?”

“No.”

“But, you’re going to let him?”

Lennie shrugs, “I can bring you stuff. Whatever you want. I can do whatever you want.”

“I want a gun and I want to go home,” Carisi snaps.

“No, except that.”

“What is this? Our final meal on death row? Then I want a plate of my mom’s chicken piccata. I won’t settle for Olive Garden, you get my mom on the phone.”

Barba never thought he would live to see the day when sweet, soft Carisi was livid, and then it is gone. Carisi stands, he relaxes, he glances at Barba and the smallest, wittiest grin tugging at his lips and then he approaches Lennie like a lawyer.

“I want a nail grooming kit,” Carisi orders, “A metal one. I got this thing about my fingernails, I don’t like them growing out. I want a glass cup because I’m sick of drinking water out of Dixie cups at the bathroom sink. I want a bottle of wine, I don’t care what kind, but I’m topping the new and my last year off in style. I want a carton of cigarettes because if I’m going to die in February I’m not about to quit smoking, too. That’s where I draw the line.”

Barba frowns.

“Okay,” Lennie breathes, “Okay, I can do that.”

“Don’t forget my matches.”

Barba holds a dumb, buffudled expression even after Lennie is gone.

He says, “You smoke?”

“No,” Carisi says, “Hey, I need a car battery.”

* * *

“When I started college I didn’t know what I wanted to major in, so I just took a bunch of core classes,” Sonny says, “I took an ethics class, a communications, a math, and I took general chemistry.”

“And now you’re going to kill us?”

“No. Well, maybe.”

Barba stands out of the bathroom looking in. Sonny is sitting on the bathtub rim with a metal bucket he found under the sink and some wood from the chair back he splintered. He has the shower curtain pulled back and one leg out of the tub. His pant legs are rolled up.

“Before college I wanted to be a priest, but then I wanted to be a doctor - you know, cure cancer, help kids and all that. I just knew I was supposed to help people.”

“How did you go from priest to doctor?”

“Honestly, I changed my mind a lot. I wanted to be a social worker, a writer, a teacher. I was all over the map.”

“Now you’re a cop. And trying to be a lawyer.”

“I never really settled on one thing.”

“So you took chemistry?”

“General chemistry, the first of two parts.”

“You never took the second part?”

“It was really hard.”

“Did you even pass the class?”

“Well, I got a C. A high C.”

“I find comfort knowing it will be you killing me instead of George.”

Sonny rolls his eyes - he thinks he picked that up from Barba. He fills the bucket with water and sets it aside. He dries the bathtub with a towel and sets one of their porcelain plates in the center of the tub. The wood and cushion stuffing are piled tightly on the plate and Sonny shakes his matches.

“What are you planning?”

“Okay, to be honest I didn’t get this idea from my class. We focused more on elements and charges and sublevels and it was really confusing. But, I got pretty close to the teacher’s assistant when I paid her to tutor me. She was a chemistry major and a graduate student doing independent research. She was nice, but a little batty.”

“And you’re going to what?”

“I’m going to concentrate sulfuric acid. I think.”

“From a car battery?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know why you think we can get our hands on a car battery.”

“You’re a lawyer. Talk someone into it.”

“Whatever classes Fordham Law is offering that makes you think lawyers are silver-tongued, all powerful persuaders, Harvard didn’t offer. What is the point of this sulfuric acid? And the wine, and the nail clippers, and the damn cup.”

“Concentrated sulfuric acid needs to be kept in glass because it will corrode plastic and metal, or maybe that’s nitric acid. Or the other one. But, better safe than sorry. The pint glass is going to have to work for a graduated cylinder and the wine glass is going to be how we transfer the acid to the window. We’re going to corrode the metal bars off the window. It’s going to be slow, real slow, but when it’s weak enough we can use the nail file.”

“This is your plan?”

“This is all I got.”

“It’s a pretty dumb plan.”

“Well, I’m not a chemist.”

“And I’m not a con man,” Barba sighs, “But if this works you better call that girl and kiss her ass.”

Sonny laughs and he agrees.

* * *

“Okay, okay,” Carisi says, “She’s leaving.”

“And we still don’t know where George is.”

“It’s still early. He’s probably asleep.”

Carisi watches through the window as the mother finishes scraping ice off her car windows and drives away. He nods, signalling her tail lights have curved onto another street.

Barba, at the top of the stairs, pounds on the door. He waits, then knocks loudly again. When footsteps race forward, he sits on the top steps and feels the basement door slam open behind him. Barba’s breath catches in his throat and he rolls with it, allowing his chest to heave and his lungs to stutter.

Lennie drops to his knees beside him. Barba feels his huge hand on his back, then Lennie is in his face, a wild mess of concern. He gapes like a fish, big mouth dropping open and clapping closed wordlessly.

“I’m fine,” Barba says.

“What can I do? What’s happening? What can I do?”

“I’m fine. It’s my heart.”

Lennie almost falls back - spooked.

“I usually take medication, but my pills are at home.”

“I can’t call an ambulance.”

“I don’t need an ambulance, I need some fresh air.”

“Of course,” Lennie swings one of Barba’s arms over his shoulders and hauls him to his feet.

Barba looks down at Carisi, still by the back window. He nods.

Lennie leads Barba into the small kitchen, where the lights are off. The early morning sun glows off the hardwood floor from the kitchen window, and from the sliding glass door to the backyard. Barba stops Lennie before he reaches the door.

“Not the backyard, if one of your neighbors see me the police will be here in a matter of minutes. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to take part in a guns blazing standoff.”

“Where?”

“The garage is fine.”

Lennie leads them quickly down the hallway. They pass pictures of babies, toddlers, and teens as they grow up together. The happy family is pinned up in beautiful frames, over three decades of photos show them through birthdays, graduations, and marriages. There are five close kids, a doting mother, a strong and happy father. The neighbor family, Barba realizes, with a cruel, intrusive voice in his head that wonders where they could be now.

Lennie holds Barba tightly to him and shakes like a leaf as he kicks the door to the garage open.The cold of winter seeps through the hoodie Barba snatched from Carisi.

Clearing the chair by the toolman’s bench, Lennie helps Barba into a seat. Lennie lingers, making sure Barba stays in his seat.

“Can you breathe? How’s your heart? How’s your chest? Is it tight?”

“No, no. I’m fine. I’m feeling a little better.”

Lennie is still tense, in his face, watching him closely. Barba flashes a small, reassuring smile that gets Lennie breathing his own air.

“I could really use some water.”

Lennie freezes.

Barba keels over, gritting his teeth, “I’m not going anywhere. I just need some water.”

Lennie nods and sprints out of the garage and Barba leaps from his seat.

An old Civic is parked among boxes and tools and holiday storage. Barba tries the driver’s door and finds it locked. The lever for the engine tempts him from the floor well. Barba glances toward the tools, hoping for keys or a crowbar. Barba tries to force the hood, then he goes for the hammer on the desk. Before he has it, Lennie’s racing back. With seconds left before Lennie bursts in the door, Barba catalogues everything he can reach.There are hammers, nails, wrenches, trash from dry cleaning visits and grocery store runs, wool winter jackets, and a tangle of Christmas lights.

Barba takes a seat and sets his face in his hands as Lennie turns the corner.

Lennie rushes to his side with the glass of water and Barba sips it tenderly and thankfully. Moving a couple of cardboard boxes of kids toys, Lennie sits next to him.

“Do you feel any better?”

“A little, yes. Thanks to you.”

Lennie squeezes Barba’s knee reassuringly, “Your heart?”

“Still beating.”

It may have escaped Barba’s notice, or was just not a fact on his radar, but Lennie is young. He cannot be in his thirties like his brother, probably would not be out of college yet, if he was going. It would not surprise Barba if he was barely old enough to drink.

When Barba finishes his water, Lennie takes the glass and his elbow and Barba roots himself in the seat.

“Wait, please.”

“My brother will be up soon.”

“I know, I just need some fresh air. Just a minute. Listen, we can sit here and just talk.”

Lennie is nervous and reluctant until Barba points to the lights.

“You guys didn’t decorate for Christmas?”

“No,” Lennie says, “but we live next door. We didn’t decorate because it’s been a tough couple months, and my brother wasn’t feeling the spirit. These guys, the neighbors, they usually decorate but they were invited to a family's Christmas in Florida.”

“Away from the snow.”

“Very lucky, I know.”

“Did you want to decorate?”

“Yes, I love Christmas.”

“Officer Carisi loves Christmas, too. You guys actually have a lot in common. He won’t stop talking about how his father keeps winning the neighborhood award for best decorations year after year after year.”

“I should get you back downstairs.”

“Wait,” Barba locks himself in his seat again, “I’m starting to feel better, the fresh air is helping, but if you take me back so soon I’ll just end up on the floor again.”

Lennie has broken out in a sheen sweat. He peers over his shoulder.

“If I could just eat a quick breakfast up here,” Barba suggests.

“No,” Lennie starts.

“Why don’t you just cook the eggs. I’ll wait here, and when they’re done I will have had plenty of time to recover.”

Barba presses a fist into his chest and winces, and Lennie watches him like he’s watching a bomb timer.

“Look, you can tie my hands,” Barba finds a couple zip ties on the desk.

Lennie looks even more reluctant to take them. He looks toward the house twice before he finally nods. One tie locks around Barba’s wrists, the second loops through that tie and the handle of the desk drawer.

“Is that okay?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not too tight?”

“It’s fine.”

“And your heart?”

“Fine. Thank you for asking.”

Lennie stares at him, absolutely petrified by Barba’s comforting words and slight smile. With a great pull from gravity, Lennie finally gives in to his duties in the kitchen. The very second Lennie is out of sight, Barba rolls his eyes, pulls the desk drawer open, and finds a pair of scissors. He clips both zip ties and grabs a wire hanger from the pile of dry cleaner trash, unwinding it. After two decades out of practise, Barba gets to work commiting grand theft auto in the time it takes to scramble eggs.

Civics were always easy pickings. Barba still remembers when to twist the wire to lock around the distinct latch trigger of a Japanese model car. Embarrassingly, even with the help of muscle memory, it takes almost two minutes to get the car unlocked.

Barba pulls the release and quickly hauls the heavy engine lip above his head. When he has it secured, he blanches at the complicated machinery. It restores a lot of confidence to read ‘Battery’ on the big block Barba would not have bet his life on, but it is a little less comforting to see all the wires and bolts attached to the box. Barba can see where a wrench is needed, so he grabs one out of the tool box. He sees a couple loose wires and considers where to tug first. A heartbeat passes and Barba throws caution to the wind, tearing out cords even as he pulls the battery.

It is bigger than he planned for and heavy. Barba sets it on the garage floor and closes the engine so softly that is does not lock. He hides the battery under the winter coats and zip ties his hands again.

Lennie is back after a frustrating couple of minutes. He sets Barba and Carisi’s breakfast down and clips Barba’s wrists free. He holds Barba’s elbow and directs him to stand.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, but cold. Do you mind if I take a couple of the coats with me? The heater doesn’t really work down there at night.”

“Yes, of course.”

Lennie does not watch him close enough to spot his sleight of hand. Barba breathes in his last bit of fresh air before he is taken inside, and he stares at the garage door opener on the wall as he passes through the doorway. He thinks of Carisi and his stupid science experiment and follows Lennie back inside.

* * *

Sonny marks the level of the acid in the pint glass with Barba’s highlighter, a little lower this time. The plate and the matches are pushed back near the bath’s drain, and the pint glass is balanced carefully on the back rim of the tub. Overnight, the battery acid has aired out as the watered down solution begins to lose content to evaporation.

“You’re full of surprises,” Barba admits from the doorway.

Sonny smiles, “You make a very good con man.”

“How much longer are we going to watch this glass?”

“I think we can start tomorrow morning. We have to wait for the level to stop dropping, and it’s starting to slow down.”

“You should have followed through with chemistry.”

“It’s more than just knowing a couple fun facts about batteries and water. You have to learn about light and energy and math. I heard some horror stories about organic, it was enough to scare me away. Will you grab the wine and the corkscrew?”

Barba digs their wine out from under the sink, where they have hidden the battery pack, the wrench - the rest of their hobbled plan.

“This will be a very interesting start to the new year. But, not the worst New Years I’ve ever had.”

Sonny pops the bottle open, “That’s pretty impressive. Was it the wild nights at Harvard?”

“Those led to some particularly nasty hangovers, yes.”

“You want a sip of this before I pour it out?”

“I prefer white wines,” Barba says, but he reaches for the bottle.

“I didn’t think you were the type to drink straight from a bottle.

“You want me to use a Dixie cup?”

Barba takes one more sip before he passes the wine back to Sonny. Tempted by Barba’s slight flustered flush, Sonny takes a big sip himself. It is a bitter, cheap wine, but Sonny does not have a palate for delicacies, and it is hard to complain when Barba sits against the wall and slides to the bath matt.

“I forgot, you have that party tonight.”

Sonny passes the wine back, “Yeah, you were supposed to come with me.”

“I don’t think I ever agreed to that.”

“I was going to talk you into it.”

“I go to dinners, not to parties.”

“Not even for a man in uniform?”

“You’re,” Barba scoffs, “very cheeky, Officer Carisi.”

Barba could be offended, but he smiles after he looks away - something secret, allusive. Sonny relaxes when he sees it, relaxes further still when Barba passes the bottle.

“The smell of that cup is giving me a headache.”

Sonny stands and offers him a hand. Barba takes it and he takes the bottle back. They move to the living room where Barba sits on the couch and stares up at the window even as Sonny sits by the other arm.

It is dark outside, but in December the sun sets early. It might be seven or eight.

They sit, passing the bottle back and forth and taking miserable swigs off the wine for many silent hours. Barba worries at loose twine along the seams of the couch a bit dejectedly. Sonny, suddenly too nervous to break the silence, allows time to drag.

Watching Barba frown and hum with a runaway train of thought develops into a great entertainment. For all of Barba’s stone and ice, he is very expressive when he forgets he has an audience. Even in front of his case, Barba will sit over his work and think with the dip and rise of his eyebrows, the drop and wrinkle of his forehead, the turn of his jaw. Since Sonny had first notices him work, his eyes have fallen off the pages of his book, off his paper and pen at the desk, and he watches. Now, a little buzzed, but no more brave, Sonny still only watches.

Barba turns to look at Sonny from the corner of his eye and he sighs.

“You look sappy,” he says, “Who are you thinking about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have that look in your eye.”

“What look?”

“Like your a sentimental fool. Who is she?”

“There’s no she. Honest!”

Barba brushes it off, “Hand me that.”

Sonny passes the bottle and Barba finishes the wine, a look flashing by like he is surprised to see it empty. He sets the bottle on the coffee table. Sonny reluctantly stands and washes the bottle in the sink, setting it leaning and upside down to dry. When Sonny sits back on the couch, Barba is still thinking.

“Are you stuck in your own head again, Counselor?”

“Wine makes me a bit nostalgic.”

“Nostalgic for what?”

Barba turns where he sits, facing him, “For being home, for my own clothes, for my coffee maker, my bed.”

“I get it, really. I can’t stop thinking about my mom’s cooking.”

“You can’t stop talking about it, either.”

“You know what, when we get out of here you’re coming over for a nice dinner. Then you’ll understand.”

Barba rolls his eyes again.

“I’m serious, consider yourself RSVP’d. You can meet my sisters, my niece, my dad, it’ll be nice.”

“What would be nice is getting out of here before you start making grandiose promises for a home cooked meal. From where I stand now, we have all eggs in a basket that is entirely dependent on you remembering a fun fact from your undergraduate days.”

“I’m going to get you out of here. You’ll be safe at home in no time. How’s that for a grandiose promise?”

“Appropriately theatrical.”

Sonny kisses him on the corner of the mouth. A reason for the kiss does not occur to him, only the true and irrefutable fact that they were both inching slowly, bafflingly closer as Sonny laughed and grinned, as Barba taunted and smirked. Sonny stays close, still enchanted by a magnetic pull and the feeling of Barba’s soft lips and stubble.

“That is a very unusual way to reassure someone,” Barba says, “Did they teach you that at the academy?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You must say that to all the boys.”

Sonny sits back awkwardly, “Really, I’m sorry.”

Outside and far off, the first of the new year’s fireworks explode and crackle into the sky. Barba looks toward the window and Sonny looks at the strong line of his jaw. When Barba turns back, they are nose to nose.

“Happy New Years, Officer.”

“To the worst New Years celebration ever.”

Barba kisses him this time, or Sonny thinks he does. In the haze of who-leans-first, Sonny is lost in the gentle press of Barba’s lips and the feather light brush of fingers on his side. Sonny feels guilty and over eager and euphoric and he curls one hand in Barba’s hair. He keeps it light, keeps an open door always, to allow Barba any air or escape. He does not muscle into Barba’s space, but he wants and he aches and he tries not to alleviate the need for pressure-push-feel, and then Barba turns and opens his mouth.

Sonny is too enthusiastic as Barba responds. When Barba grips and unfolds and kisses Sonny with the same avid abandon, Sonny prickles with goosebumps and he bulldozes into the next kiss, the next press of tongues and gentle bites. When Barba winces Sonny snaps back.

“My nose.”

The cut has not reopened, Sonny is relieved to see.

“You know, just by looking at you I should have predicted you were a clumsy first kiss.”

“What can I say, I’m an open book. Tell me, how do you see the second kiss going?”

“You are about as smooth as sandpaper.”

Sonny has an affection for laughing into kisses. He is delighted to be sharing breath, and the wet on his lips, and a hum of amusement.

“Is this some sort of stockholm syndrome?” Barba is so close, “Some psychology student could write their thesis paper on this.”

“You could blame it on the wine.”

“Half a bottle? Officer, if you’re drunk right now, you are not only a lightweight you might actually have no liver.”

“Then I guess, sober and mentally intact, I just like kissing you.”

George, Sonny did not even hear him come down, throws a chair from the kitchen table. It hits the stairs, but does not break. He stands and he clenches his fists and he stares at Sonny with heat that could burn. Sonny stands and quickly scans for the gun. He does not breathe any easier just because he does not see it.

“My brother is in prison and you are supposed to be working to get him out and instead you are down here,” He slams his fist on the table, “playing around.”

“What a surprise,” Barba hisses, “this job pays less and has worse hours. Look, the case is on the table. You can see how much is done.”

“We don’t have time for distractions.”

“Okay,” Barba stands, “I’ll get back to work right now. I’ll work through the night.”

George watches Barba move, tenses when he passes like he considers attacking, then he walks up the stairs.

“I really hate this guy,” Sonny says.

Barba puffs and looks at his documents.

George gets to the top level, grabs something from the kitchen without closing the door behind him, and stamps back down. He brandishes Sonny’s handcuffs, pointing to the office.

“Let’s go, Officer.”

Barba starts to drift into the path to the office, holding up his hands and trying to keep the peace.

“If you get in my way, lawyer, I will blow his brains out.”

Immediately, Barba steps back, falling toward the table and the stairs. He glances up at the open door and then hardens with a grimace. Sonny tries to catch his eye, but Barba watches George.

George directs Sonny into the closet, passing the desk to the shelves of storage. Sonny catches the cuffs when they are tossed to him, and although he knows the drill he allows George to talk him through cuffing his wrist to the bracket. His wrist is up too high for Sonny to sit on the floor. George kicks him the wheeled chair from the desk, locks the door from inside, and closes it behind him.

“No more playing around, no more buying time, no more delays, no more distractions,” George yells, “You eat, you sleep, you work on this case, and if I catch you doing anything else, you die!”

Sonny drops into his chair and leans his head back on the shelf. Quietly, he prays.

* * *

Barba does not leave the desk until Lennie comes down with breakfast. Lennie only carries one plate.

“Where’s the newspaper?”

“I can’t bring it down for you anymore.”

“I need it for the case.”

“My brother said you have to make the case without it.”

Barba tosses his pen onto the table and sits back. Lennie looks apologetic, but Barba has run out of empathy.

“What is Carisi supposed to eat? Do you expect him to die in the closet?”

Lennie says nothing and he avoids eye contact.

“Go away if you’re not going to help me.”

Lennie looks up, panicked, “What?”

“Get the hell out of here. You and your mongrel brother can at least give me the illusion of peace.”

The hesitation makes Barba angrier, but he bites his tongue. A hundred vile comments would feel very good, but could also get him killed. Barba knows he has an expressive face, and everything he is thinking can be read in his sneer. Even oblivious Lennie is taken aback, falling back to the stairs.

When he is gone, Barba takes the plate to the office door. He tries to slide it under, but the crack is not tall enough for the plate.

“Counselor,” Carisi calls.

Barba drops his back against the door and sits on the floor. He turns the eggs over on his plate with his fork, but cannot find an appetite.

“I’m here.”

“You saw the basement door was open last night, unguarded.”

“Yeah.”

“You should have taken a chance when George was in the closet with me.”

“I would have been shot down by their mother upstairs.”

“If she’s even here.”

“All the runaround for the car battery and the wine and the work in the bathtub. The whole plan is busted, probably beyond repair.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“I know where you’re going with this. I’m not a chemist, my science credit in college was astronomy. I can’t finish your terrible plan, but I can tell you what constellations we’re under.”

“That makes you the second best chemist here.”

“And you’re the number one comedian, but this is not a very funny joke, Carisi.”

“Barba, just start the fire, feed it until it gets hot, and put that tripod we made out of the couch springs above it. Try to get the acid to a boil and when it starts smoking white you take it off and leave it to cool.”

“So, not only do you want me to play with acid, you want me to start a fire? In the basement of a very nice man who has treated us with patience and will no doubt react well to the smell of smoke.”

“Turn on the bathroom fan and keep the door closed. Also, try not to breathe in the steam, or get any acid on your hands or in your eyes.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Counselor, you know exactly what is going to happen to us if we decide to wait this out.”

“We wait passively for our deaths or I stick my head in a bath with boiling acid?”

“Yeah,” Carisi hesitates, “That about sums it up.”

“Was this your plan all along? Buildup a dangerous, frankly ridiculous plan and then get yourself locked up so you wouldn’t have to follow through with the worst part?”

“You got me, Counselor,” Sonny says, “Guilty as charged. And it worked out pretty nicely for me, didn’t it?”

Pleased, and smirking just a little, Barba rolls up his sleeves.

* * *

Sonny holds his ear to the wall and closes his eyes. He listens with every synapse, nerve, and cell in his body. He uses his entire arm span to set his ear against the wall, and his sore arm shakes as he waits to hear from Barba. About half an hour ago, Sonny had smelled the burnt tinge of the fire and he can still hear the quiet bathroom fan rumbling behind two closed doors, but he has not heard a sound from Barba.

His cuff bridles him to the deepest quarter of the office. The door and the lock are out of his reach and foraging through the shelves overnight has turned up nothing more than the coat he has bunched up for a pillow.

He would have heard George and his temper, he would have heard a gun, he would have heard a bad accident with the acid. Still, he listens closely.

Barba is a hard man to worry about. He is rigid, strong, confident, a little cocky - he can clearly hold his own. Now though, Sonny knows a secret, something even Barba may not be aware of: there is a part of Barba that is as soft as his lips. Although this small section - or piece or atom - has been responsible for Barba melting against the brush of Sonny’s fingertips, and has been the foundations of the smiles Barba thinks he can hide, it had also cemented Barba in the basement when George had left the door open. Barba should be home now.

Sonny jumps at the loud knock.

“Carisi, it’s done.”

Sonny drops into his chair and cools his forehead on the metal shelves.

“Are you okay?”

“I have a headache,” Barba says.

“Did it work?”

“It’s cooling down.”

Sonny stares at the ceiling and sends his genuine gratitude upward. Barba sits against the door.

“I always hated science,” he says.

“Even when you were a little kid?”

“Always. What do I do now?”

“When it cools, pour it into the wine bottle and dump a quarter of it on the parts of the bars that attach it to the wall. In a few hours, do another quarter, and again until you’re out. You want to wait until the bars are completely dry, then dump the bucket of water on them and start filing. Is the nail kit still under the sink?”

“Yes.”

“Can you do all of that?”

“I can’t imagine coming up with an excuse that could get me out of it.”

“Hey,” Sonny says, “you should have those bars off by tomorrow morning.”

“So we need to come up with a way to get you out of there.”

“That’s all well and good, and I definitely want to keep that door open, but if it all comes down to one moment I need to know you will get out of here.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I already told you, I’m not here to take a bullet.”

Sonny tugs on his cuff, “Good.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“You’re not very convincing.”

“More importantly than the plan to get out without you, what’s the plan to get out with you?”

“I need something to pick this lock.”

“What about the springs from the couch? We have extra.”

“Too thick.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for something that will work. What about the door?”

“Kick it in.”

“I’ll shatter my knee.”

“When the time comes, I’ll teach you the way to do it. That will have to be the last step because all that noise is going to bring George down here. We’re going to have to move fast.”

“Carisi,” Barba is alarmed.

“What? What is it.”

George’s voice is clear and angry, “What are you planning.”

* * *

George holds his gun and stares for hours. He is not looking at Barba so much as through him, to the office door behind his skull. The basement door is open, the kitchen light is off, and there is no movement - no sign of Lennie.

Barba keeps his gaze pointedly off the gun and right at George so if, even in a flash, the gun is raised and fired, George will still have to look him in the eye.

Carisi has been quiet for as long as George has been sitting, but Barba can hear him getting restless. The doors has been locked since midnight, and time has crawled back to an early sun set. The sky is red and dark with a looming blizzard and since George has not flicked on the overhead light, the room is cascading into shadow.

When Barba can only see George’s silhouette by the gloom of twilight, he risks a challenge.

Barba says, “Is that gun even loaded?”

George fires the pistol upward, blowing a hole in the ceiling. Barba startles back an inch. His ears ring.

“Barba!”

“I’m fine.”

“Listen, let’s sort this out,” Sonny says, “Are you listening? Hey, we need to talk.”

George tosses the keys over to Barba - the storage room key and the handcuff keys. Barba turns them over in his hands.

“Get your friend.”

“Where are we going?”

George paces to the table and collects Barba’s work into the cardboard box.

Barba unlocks the office. Boxes and chairs block the door from opening completely inward and Barba has to force it.

Carisi sinks into a relieved sigh, “You know, I can feel my blood pressure and it’s not good news.”

Barba tosses him the cuff keys, “Speaking of good news, it turns out we won’t be putting your dabble in the sciences to test.”

“We still could.”

“Interesting thought, but I’m not giving a gun wielding maniac an acid bath.”

“Oh, so it’s a better idea to follow that gun wielding maniac to, probably, our execution?”

Barba looks up at him, “You’re very convincing. Have you ever thought about becoming a lawyer?”

“I’ll go for the bathroom.”

George kicks at the door and he stays in the doorway.

“No more plans,” He hisses, “No more whispering. Put this on.”

Carisi catches the cloths and he holds it out. It is a white, tissue-thin square, like bandana fabric. Carisi is motioned out of the office. Barba follows after.

They are lined up facing the stairs, shoulder to shoulder. George stands behind them, vicious and marching with his pistol and his cardboard box.

“Blindfold yourself.”

Carisi is looking at the bathroom door as he drapes the cloth over his eyes and ties it tight. George tests it with a tug.

“Upstairs.”

“And then?”

Barba feels the barrel of the gun press to the base of his skull. It is still hot.

“Stop asking questions, lawyer.”

Barba strides up the stairs and Carisi is close - keeping a hand on his back for guidance. Keeping an eye out for Lennie, for lights on in rooms, for weapons, Barba walks as he is directed. Through the kitchen, down the hall, passing the photos as they enter the garage.

“Get in the car.”

Barba stands before the Civic. He has never been a big fan of breaking bad news, so remains silent, and when George opens the back door, Barba indulges him. George tucks Carisi’s head down as he sits, too.

When the door slams closed, Barba says, “The car won’t start.”

Carisi calculates quickly, “He will get pretty pissed.”

“Pissed off enough to turn the gun back here.”

“I can lunge for the gun.”

“Blindfolded?”

“I can’t get my blindfold off.”

“Faster than he can pull the trigger?”

“Maybe.”

George drops into the driver’s seat with the case files in his lap. He drapes one arm over the steering wheel, drops his forehead onto his arm, and screams. Frustrated and furious, he snaps up and punches the vents above the radio. He punches until the scabs on his knuckles reopen, until the bandages fall off and red stains are left behind. He sits back and breathes.

Barba watches the gun. It never leaves his left hand, curled in his lap and aiming toward the backseat, toward Carisi.

George finds his phone and dials a number. As it rings on speaker, placed on the dashboard, George digs all of the papers from his box and spreads them on the passenger seat.

The phone clicks, “Mr Barlow.”

“Don’t hang up,” George begs. He drops his forehead against the wheel and sobs.

“I’m not hanging up.”

Gasping and sniffling, George laughs, “I did it. I have the case. My brother will get to come home.”

“Do you have Mr Barba and that officer?”

“That doesn’t matter. I have the case and you can present it next month. You can destroy the prosecution.”

“Are they still alive, Mr Barlow?”

“Look, listen. It doesn’t matter because I solved the case. You remember the texts? We’re going to tell the jury they were threats, that words were encoded. And you remember the video? We can explain that, too. It was all self defense. He was acting to save himself and his family.”

“Where are you?”

“Stop. Stop asking me questions. You’re not listening.”

“We need to know that the attorney and the cop are okay.”

“Who’s we?”

“No, I-”

“Who is we?”

“Mr Barlow.”

“Did you go to the police? I told you not to. I told you. You fucking coward.”

A new voice sounds with strength, “Mr Barlow, this is Olivia Benson with the NYPD. I need you to listen to me. I can help you.”

“I don’t want your help! I want my brothers!”

“We have your brothers in custody. Both of them. I think you know that we found your younger brother at the store this morning. He called the police and turned himself in. We have your older brother, we have Charlie right here, do you want to talk to him?”

“Yes,” George weeps, “Please.”

“First, you have to do me a favor. You need to tell me if Mr Barba and Officer Carisi are still alive.”

George punches the dashboard and pounds a fist into the side of his head.

“David, I have your brother right here. He wants to speak with you. He has something very important to say but, you have to tell me how they’re doing.”

“They’re alive,” George croaks.

“Good,” Olivia Benson breathes, “May I speak with one of them?”

“You said I could talk to Charlie!”

“And you can, after I confirm what you have told me.”

George spins in his seat and turns the gun on Barba. He jabs the barrel into Barba’s temple and spits, “Speak.”

“I am Rafael Barba. I’m alive.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“And Officer Carisi?”

“He’s here. He’s alive.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr Barba.”

“Me too.”

“Officer Carisi,” Benson says, “Your partner has been worried about you.”

George grabs the phone, “My brother.”

“Yes, I will uphold my end of the bargain, David. Here’s Charlie.”

“David,” the voice is soft and broken.

“Charlie, are you okay? Have they hurt you?”

“No, David. No, of course not.”

“I have great news, Charlie.”

“Dave, stop.”

“What?”

“Davey, the police arrested out baby brother. They have Sam.”

“I know. I know, I’ll get him out.”

“Who are you going to kidnap to do it?”

“Charlie, you don’t understand. I have a great case for you. You’re coming home.”

“Sam has been arrested for this. Mom, too. The police found her at the airport three hours ago. They said she had a ticket for France. She was running. David, the cops are looking for you.”

“It’s okay, they won’t find me.”

“David.”

“It was all worth it. I solved the case and you’re coming home.”

“I’m pleading guilty,” David says, “I did it. All of it. The prosecutor offered me a good deal, and I am going to serve my time. It will be 25 years, and then I could be paroled.”

“What are you saying?”

“I was wrong to ask you to fix my mistakes. I should not have put that on you. But, David, I have to ask you for one more favor. You have to let those two guys go. Turn yourself in-”

George hangs up the phone. He drops it to the footwell and when it rings, he ignores it.He thrusts himself out of the Civic and jerks Barba’s door open.

Carisi starts babbling, “Your brother is right. David, listen to me you are a good man. Your brother, Charlie, is a good man, too. You are good guys who got dragged into bad situations. It does not make you evil, or wrong, or killers. You’re not a killer, David.”

Barba is dragged to his feet by the hood of the jacket Carisi lent him. He is tossed toward the garage door and he trips on the Christmas lights, catching himself on the engine hood. Carisi is towed from the backseat and dropped on his ass. It takes him a second to find his feet and George kicks Carisi toward Barba. Carisi reaches out blindly and Barba grabs his hand.

George leads them inside and toward the door to the backyard. Barba slides the door open and a bone chilling cold chases the heat from his body. Stepping, barefoot, out into the snow, Barba walks the ten feet to the concrete wall as he is ordered. He crunches the snow underfoot and he blisters in the ice and, behind him, Carisi fairs no better.

“Kneel,” George says, “Face the wall.”

Barba’s stomach drops.

“David,” Carisi says.

“Shut up!”

“God,” Barba turns to face George, “I just wish I would be the one to prosecute you.”

George - snotty, crying, teeth-barred - stares at Barba.

“It will be a great case,” Barba promises, “And you will spend every last second that is left of your life in a sunless prison.”

He hopes Rita gets the case. She is clever, she is ruthless, and she is marvelously spiteful.

George says, “Turn around. On your knees.”

Barba turns around and drops to his knees.

“David,” Carisi pleads.

Barba’s heart aches for Carisi.

“Kneel or die standing.”

“Then I die standing!”

Barba hears the blow to the gut and the gasp from Carisi. He hears him drop to the snow and get hauled into position. Barba watches the wall and, from the corner of his eyes, the snow fall.

Carisi swears under his breath in curses that leave his pink lips with the white clouds of condensation. Quickly he turns to prayers - shakily, he asks for God.

The snow soaks Barba’s knees. He thinks about his mother. He thinks about what his body will look like. He hopes his mother can remember to mention the birthmark on his calf. He hopes the M.E. will let her identify him by the mole on his elbow.

Barba whispers. “Will you regret anything?”

Carisi shivers, “Yes.”

An apology would be a terrible way to leave Carisi, so instead Barba says, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“You tried.”

Carisi watches the dark of his blindfold and Barba watches Carisi’s jawline, his reddening nose, his lips pulling back as he contains himself.

Barba says, “Can we hurry this up, David? I have somewhere to be.”

And George does not answer. The wind is biting and alone. Barba glances back.

The house lights are off, the neighbors’ lights are off, but in the distance is the city in all her beauty. In the snow she glows.

George is gone.

Barba sobs dryly and the shaking starts, the silent laughter. He presses his hot, sweaty forehead to the brick.

Carisi flinches when Barba pulls off his blindfold. The intensity of his eyes could start a fire or a war or a kiss.

Barba leans in for the kiss because Barba is smart, he is realistic, he is a big fan of reality, but he also feels like he will lose his head if he does not kiss the confusion off those lips right here and now.

For a second, Carisi kisses back. It is the second longest second Barba has experienced tonight. It is a soft and easy moment of time where Carisi puts his ice cold hands on Barba’s neck and they forget to let their hearts beat. Then, Carisi swings around to look where George’s footprints disappear through the open back gate. Cop Mode Carisi runs to the fence, runs out to the asphalt in his socks and sweatpants, and stares up the empty street.

“It’s only a matter of hours before someone finds him,” Barba says as he follows.

Carisi, as pale as the falling snow, stands under the light of a lamppost.

“That’s still a long time.”

“So is life in prison.”

Carisi sits and trembles on the curb. They will have to move back into the house to call Olivia Benson and her cavalry soon or risk frostbite. For just the time it takes them to recover and fortify, Barba sits next to him.

“I can’t even think. I’m so relieved.”

“I’m far more than relieved.”

“You want to try that again?” Carisi asks, “That kiss?”

“Carisi, I have a coffee with my name on it some miles that way.”

“Well, can I at least be the one who buys it?”

Barba looks back at Carisi - his big grin, his messy hair, his sweet eyes.

“Didn’t you leave your wallet in an alley last week?”

“There’s free coffee at the police station.”

“How romantic,” Barba drawls.

They stand together and they walk side by side.


End file.
